


My Name is Tethras, Varric Tethras

by Hatsepsut



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dirty Language, F/F, F/M, Game retelling, Humour, Multi, Other, Promiscuous Hawke, Varric's Chest hair, lots of swearing, nugshit, the awesomeness that is Varric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 41,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3805669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsepsut/pseuds/Hatsepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Tethras, Varric Tethras, at your service. This is the account of what trully happened in Kirkwall, tld in my own voice for once, just because I'm awesome like that. Take a seat, boys and girls. Let my friend Corff there pour you a drink.<br/>And take notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MEeting the Suspects: Hawke

I had been watching her and that little sister of hers for days. She is one scary chick, that Marian Hawke, let me tell you, and this here dwarf doesn’t scare so easily, trust me, my mother tried. And if my mother couldn’t intimidate me into behaving ‘like a proper dwarf’, and my brother Bartrand’s glares didn’t faze me, one little, curvy rogue shouldn’t be able to.

But that was one scary baby. Capable. Fearless. Witty. Smartass, smart-mouth, smart all over and then add some for flavour. Killer looks, killer in general.

I had gotten my information, as always. I had my sources, I _am_ awesome like that. Antheril, the leader of the smugglers she had worked for this past year was in awe of her; she was quick, agile as a cat with an extra pair of paws, and frightfully clever. Stubborn, vicious, a bitch, I heard it all when I asked about her. Clever, caring, honourable, I also heard those, to the point I didn’t know what to think of her.

Hence the following around.

My name is Varric by the way. Varric Tethras, at your services. Dwarven, as the short legs can attest to, don’t let the absence of a beard fool you. Profession? Tricky. A little bit of this, a little bit of that: part writer, part story teller extraordinaire, part merchant, part adventurer. Why stick your fingers in only one pot? Do you have just one finger?

But I digress. I was telling you the story of how I met Hawke. Easy. I had heard she was interested in taking part in my brother Bartrand’s Deep Roads expedition, but that bastard –sorry, mother- had turned her down. But what my brother didn’t realise with his limited business acumen, was that we needed someone. just. like. Hawke.

So I set up a little trap for her, and lured the little fly into my web. I had a rather dim-witted little cutpurse steal her purse. Then I stopped him and introduced myself to Hawke and made her my offer: gather 50 gold ones, find maps to the Deep Roads and don’t be a hireling, be a partner.

It was a piece of cake really. I didn’t even lose a single bolt of my beloved Bianca.

Who is Bianca? Oh, shame on you. She is the lovely crossbow on my back.

Say hello, Bianca.


	2. Meeting the Suspects: Anders I

I was there when Hawke met Anders. One could say it was my fault, really, but you didn’t hear it from me. Nope. Admission of guilt from this here dwarf? Nah, not happening. When the nug shit starts flying, I am always the one that is still smiling and that’s because I’ve found someone else to blame.

Truth be told, I usually have someone at hand to blame even before things go wrong, just to be on the safe side. You know?

But I will admit I was the one that told her about Blondie. Anders. We needed maps to the Deep Roads and I had heard there was an ex-Grey Warden in town. I wonder...did that make him another colour of Warden? A Pink Warden perhaps?

Sorry. My mind just drifted a bit. Snort. A Pink Warden.

Anyways, where was I? Yes, Anders. We learned the location of his clinic from one of the merchants in Lowtown, Lirene, I think. We had some trouble on the way there; some Fereldans wanted to make sure not a precious little hair on that blond head of his would be put to danger, but Hawke took care of that, no worries there. 

So, no shit, there I was, and we walked into that clinic. He was busy healing a kid, and we had a change to observe him before he knew we were there. He was tall, as humans tend to be, blond (but I think you got that already) and I guess rather ruggedly handsome, if you go for the scruffy, feather-pauldroned apostate type. I am no good judge of handsomeness, after all. The girls’ eyes did widen a bit at his sight, though, so he must have made an impression.

Oh, who am I kidding? Sunshine was practically drooling in that shy, prim way of hers. And Hawke...well, I am a keen observer of people, and when she tilted her head to the side and smiled at him, I got a tingle down my spine.

Scary lass, that Marian Hawke, I’ve said it before and I will say it again. When she focused on something, anything, she was like a mabari bitch with a bone.

Woof. I could practically hear it.

But just when I was prepared to lie back and she if that girl could flirt or not, the damned healer threw me a curve ball.

Blue light started seeping out of his skin, his eyes started shining like a beacon –neat trick, let me tell you- and black smoke billowed out around him. He dropped to a battle stance and his voice boomed.

“I have turned this place into a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?

So, okay, a bit of a drama queen. Sheeez. Who threatened you, you big dummy?

“I am just here to talk,” I heard Hawke say and then I explained we were there for the maps. And pretty please, kind Ser Apostate with the creepy glowing eyes, can you help us?

“Did the Wardens send you to get me back?” he asked. “I’m not going back. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads.”

Oookayy. Step back everybody. Baby steps now, and make no sudden noises.

“You...had a cat?” Hawke was understandably confused. “In...the Deep Roads?”

I heard his rambling about his cat with mounting amusement. Blondie was fun. A few bats flying around there in his belfry, but who am I to pass judgement? So, okay he was a little crazy, but fun. I like weird people like that. They make life...more interesting, lent it a bit of colour, even if that colour is ex-grey with a tiny smidgen of blue. And judging by Hawke’s reaction to him, she was of the same opinion.

We walked out of there with his promise to give us the maps if we helped rescue a friend of his, a mage, from the templars.

Clandestine rescue mission in the heart of the Chantry.

Oh, what joy!

 

 

 

 


	3. Meeting the Suspects: Anders II

So, let me say this first off, before I tell you what happened that night at the Chantry.

NUG. SHIT. Big flying chunks of it.

Ewww, but I needed that.

Okay, now that I have that out of my system, on with my narration.

We arrived at the Chantry alright, everything fine and dandy, and found Blondie waiting for us. Sunshine was understandably edgy, but Hawke was as she always was, cool and collected as always, twin daggers at the ready, and boy, did she know how to work those babies.

She is one scary lass, have I mentioned that before? I have, heh? Well I won't tire of saying it again and again, trust me. No, no, don’t get me wrong, no puppy eyes from this here dwarf, Bianca wouldn’t have it. But Hawke...she was amazing. I might be devoted to my Bianca, but if that girl was dwarven...ahem. I digress, once again.

Settle down, Bianca. I am forever true.

Where was I? Oh, the Chantry.

Just a minute, because now that I remember it, I feel the urge coming on again.

Nug shit! Shit, shit, shit! Fuck.

Okay. Bear with me and you’ll grasp the irrational urge to curse in just a second. 

First off, the whole thing was a trap.

Now I don’t know about you, but this here dwarf, does not, I repeat, _does not_ like to be set up. Some people might get a kick out of it, I don’t know, I’ve seen some pretty weird-ass stuff in my time, but ah-ha. not. my. kind. of. thing.

So, there we were, I shit you not, and a whole big bunch of templars steps out, and they hadn’t brought tea and biscuits with them, no Ser. Pretty rude of them, I know. My mother told me you never drop in without a present, especially when you’re uninvited, but hey, I expect a lot of things from templars, and manners isn’t one of them.

Did I mention Anders’ friend was sporting a sun brand on his forehead and had discovered the ‘joy’ of talking in a drawled monotone? Anders was none too pleased to see his friend a tranquil, let me tell you. In fact, the poor guy was heartbroken. I did get the distinct impression that mage was more than a friend if you get my drift, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Anyways, out come the templars, and Anders goes from feeling blue... to glowing blue. I didn’t know who to defend ourselves against.

“You will never take another mage as you took him!” a voice bellowed out and then...carnage. Poor templars. Sure they had meant to kill us but what that...thing, whatever it was, did to them...I shudder to think about it. I mean, yeah, they hadn’t brought us anything, flowers any other shit like that, but still.

And here I have to make a side note and say again just how scary a lass Hawke is, because I took a look into her face while that Anders thing wrecked havoc amongst out enemies and I could swear..she was excited. Beats me why. Was it the air of danger, was it the menace, the sheer force in that blue glowing form? I have no idea. But she was hot and bothered, make no mistake. She looked at him as if he was something yummy she couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into.

Why? Again, beats me.

The biggest surprise was that that tranquil mage( Carl, Charles, Karl?) actually got back into himself after Anders’ little display was done. For just a few seconds, he was back into being himself, and pleaded with Anders to kill him.

Poor Blondie. He did it in the end, poor, poor heartbroken mage.

But when we got back to the clinic and he explained to Hawke the whole I-was-so-incredibly-moronic- and-merged-with-a-spirit thing, she actually turned around and said with a smirk:

“Well, that explains the whole sexy, tortured look.”

Huh?

Women. I will never understand them.

But, it seemed Hawke had it bad with our little apostate-ex-Grey-warden-current-healer...Blondie. You get the picture.

For about a week.

Because then, we met Fenris.

 

 


	4. Meeting the Suspects: Fenris I

So, no shit, there I was, that  dark night we met up with the brooding elf.

Let me tell you from the start, though, Hawke and I had fast become buddies by that time. Joking aside, there was something about this woman that had fascinated me from the start, ever since I had started inquiring about her. Sure she was a looker, all the right curves on all the right places, midnight black hair and sparkling amber eyes-like a cat’s. But that wasn’t it.

Don’t fret Bianca, that wasn’t it, honestly.

She was clever, and this here dwarf appreciates cleverness in people, Stone knows how far and few between they are. The Maker must really like fools, he made so many of them, and this here city has a build-in magnet to draw them in, I swear. But Hawke wasn’t like that; that girl was _shrewd_. And being the paragon of male shrewdness that I am, I was immediately drawn to her. Before long, I had learnt her story, the desperate flight from Lothering, her brother’s loss on the way, and that rather far-fetched story of a dragon-witch-Flemeth-of-legend swooping from the skies to save them.

I like to exaggerate my stories, but jeez, really? A dragon? That morphed into a witch and back again?

I’ll believe it when I see it.

So, I was telling you about the night we met the elf. By that time, we had already  built enough rapport between us to be bantering happily along the way, laughing and trying to up one on another, which was no easy task, let me tell you.

Sunshine and Aveline were with us, and the job looked easy enough; Anso, a dwarf suffering from what I call surface jitters, had bid us retrieve his illegally withheld illegal goods. Did that make our quest doubly illegal, I wonder, or did two illegalities cancel one another out?

But here I am rambling again. Hah. Merrill must be rubbing off on me.

I’ll tell you about her the next time, don’t worry.

But before I carry on to tell you about the brouhaha that followed, a few words about Aveline.

That woman unnerves me to the very day. Scary lady. And they say ginger heads are fun. First off, she was smart, too. But that was were all similarities with Hawke ended. Hawke was a flirt, irreverent, laughing in the face of convention. Pair that with a caustic sense of humour and a scathing tongue and you had a killer combination. She loved danger and excitement and right and wrong were at best abstract meanings for her: Hawke did what Hawke thought best. She believed that laws were made to be bent, broken and spat on, unless of course it suited her to obey them.

My kind of girl.

Aveline was law. Aveline was respect and discipline and code of honour.  Aveline was a guard. She wasn’t the gentle hand of the law, either oh, no. That lady was scary. She tolerated no bullshit, and lucky for Hawke she loved her like a little sister, otherwise her and yours truly would have gotten in serious trouble with Aveline for some of the bullshit we said and did.

That aside, on with my story.

So, no shit, there we were, thinking the job would be easy, nothing Bianca and I wouldn’t be able to handle, right?

Have I mentioned how much I don’t like being set up? Yep. I have. Guess what? It happened again.

I was talking to Aveline, after the damned box in the house was found to be empty, explaining my theory to her of why they let a Fereldan in the guard, which mainly consisted of “You know, it's possible they're just scared shitless of you.” She just gave me one of those stern looks of hers that remind me of my mother (shiver), and we all walked out together, to be greeted by a group of Tevinter slavers.

“That’s not the elf!” one of them shouted.

Really? What was your first clue? Do I even look like an elf, you dim-wit?  

And so, we got into the fight with gusto, me yelling “how many have you got, Hawke?” and her laughing and twirling and disappearing into the shadows; sweet Bethany roasted a few and Aveline was like the battering ram from hell. Soon the place fell silent.

Well done, my lovely Bianca. You were brilliant that night.

To cut a long story short, we met up with a slaver on the way out of the alienage, who started ranting and raving that we were going to die, and blah, blah, blah. I so wanted to yawn, but you know, it’s not polite. If there was one thing my mother did, other than drink and spit like a sailor, that was to drill the importance of good manners into me. Anyway, the slaver called to his men, and then a poor fellow staggered onto the stairs, blood seeping from a gaping wound on his chest.

“Your men are dead,” a voice said and a white haired man started descending the stairs.

So, reactions.

First. He was an elf. The pointed ears were a dead give-away. Weirdest looking elf I have ever seen, though: white hair, piercing green eyes and lines of a white thing carved on his skin. It looked like those tattoos the Dalish had, but it wasn’t. I soon found out differently.

Second. Hawke. Her eyes shot wide open, she gave him a long, appraising look and bit her lip. I thought oh-oh. Trouble. Run, elf, run. Get away. She’ll gobble you up, can’t you see her drooling?

Third. He continued speaking, and well. I promised to be honest, as honest as I can be, so I will spit it out, and if any of you ever mentions this to me again, I will deny all knowledge.

Damn, that elf had a killer voice!

And then he went and gave us all the absolute, freaking hibbie jibbies.  I mean seriously. Made my skin crawl.

What did he do? Those strange lines on his body lit up and he plunged his fist –yes, his fist, you heard me- through that man’s chest. Pulled out his heart and threw to the ground, I shit you not.

“You have a talent for attracting weirdoes, Hawke,” I muttered to her, but she didn’t even hear me.

Oh, Hawke was a goner. I silently lamented the loss of my buddy as she descended into that pit of  vipers called ‘love at first sight’.

The elf continued speaking, pleaded with us to help eliminate his former master – yes, he was an escaped slave, oh goodie!- and Hawke, I knew it would agree to help him kill the Archon himself; she was _that_ intrigued.

I sighed to myself, exchanged a rueful look with Sunshine and trekked behind her.

One blue-glowing weirdo had made us kill a bunch of templars and this one wanted us to kill a magister.

“Hawke, can the next man we meet _not_ glow blue, please?” I asked her and she laughed. “Pretty please? I’ll put you on my tab.”

“How is green?” she answered and we made our way to Hightown.

Well, Bianca, no rest for the wicked.

I shot a look to Aveline, for once hoping the guard would object to us breaking into a Hightown mansion, but she just shrugged.

Well. Nug shit.

I followed her, as I always did.  After all, Hawke was clever. She knew what she was doing, right?

Wrong.

Turns out, when it came to romance, that girl was a few bricks shy of a brick load.

Ah, bronto crap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Meeting the Suspects: Fenris II

We arrived at a rather poorly kept mansion in Hightown to find that weird-ass looking elf waiting for us, me, Aveline, Bethany and Hawke. After spending a few minutes to formulate a plan, we broke in, and the damned elf started bellowing out “Danarius! I know you're in there, come out, you coward!”

So much for subtlety. I sometimes wonder why we even try.

Shades, and corpses and demons and same-old-tune, what else was new. Getting on our bad side seemed to be rather...unhealthy.

We slowly made our way to the main bedroom in the house, no trouble there, especially with the addition of the elf. That scrawny little pointy eared bastard had a sword as tall as he was, and he swung it around as if it was a fly squatter. I was impressed. When I had first seen his sword I had thought ‘overcompensating for something’ with a sideway little smirk. Honestly. It seemed like the kind of weapon you hoist on your back to say ‘look how big and scary my sword is, don’t look at my pecker, you won't find it anyway.’ But no, that elf could actually _use_  that thing, and use it well. His sword, I mean, not his pecker. Ewww. Unwanted visual.

After we found the master bedroom where his master was supposed to be in (master in a master bedroom, get it?) to be empty, he got a rather disappointed expression – I swear his ears drooped a bit- and he made a hasty exit, telling us to gather whatever valuables we found.

That was my first indication the elf had no money with which to pay us, by the way. I  hate it when we do jobs for free. No, I do not want to be paid in chickens, thank you very much. No, you can keep that old junk, or better yet, go sell it and then pay us in money. My pack does not have unlimited capacity for your knick-knacks, thank you very much.

Barter economy. How uncivilized. 

So, where was I? Ah, yes. We gathered what we could find that could fetch a decent price and made our way to the front door. And there that elf was, with a look on his face as if we had just kicked his puppy. No, as if we had just kicked his puppy, stepped on his cat’s tail and boiled his favourite canary to make soup.

“It never ends,” he started. “I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hound me down at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul.”

 Drama queen, anybody?

“And now,” he spat as he turned those seething green eyes of his our way, “I find myself in the company of even more mages.”

Red alert. Red alert. Run to the hills, women and children first!

You hadn’t seen Hawke get angry if you hadn’t seen her precious little sister threatened. Bethany was of course taken aback; she was such a sweet young thing, such a loving and tender personality, that this much hate, and especially from someone we had just helped, was like a slap to her face. Poor little Sunshine. Bianca was outraged, let me tell you. She was itching to end the efl’s speech with a bolt to the forehead. Especially when he called our Sunshine ‘a viper’ in our midst.

Hawke of course spoke up in defence of her sister, and the elf was a bit taken aback. “I hope I don’t appear ungrateful,” he said, “because nothing could be further from the truth”

Well, yeah, pal, you do sound ungrateful. Be careful. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But it's still on the list.

He then went on to explain what those weird-ass lines on his body were...get this, people: some sicko magister had pimped that poor elf full of lyrium. Those were lyrium lines. Ah-ha. You heard me. Lyrium. Lines. Embedded in his skin. Yep. I shit you not.

I forgave some of his previous ranting at that moment. If a mage had done that to me, I would probably shit a brick every time a mage said hello, that is for sure. And the guy could prove useful...he did have a nice technique with his sword, he did make Hawke’s eyes glaze a bit and let’s be honest here, that voice was not exactly hard to the ears, was it?

And let’s face it, if we are being honest here, his looks were striking. This here dwarf has never felt a single, itsy-bitsy trace of desire towards another man, cross my heart and all, but I am man enough to admit it: the guy was gorgeous.  Just the kind of character I needed for that new book I was writing with the...But you’ve read that already.

My mind had started wandering a bit at that point, thinking about what our other freak show glow boy would say upon meeting Fenris, and what the mage’s reaction was going to be to our little lyrium decorated warrior. I was betting on instant dislike, maybe even fireworks. But all bets were off; maybe Justice would get a sniff of the lyrium in the elf and we would have a love sick Fade spirit singing Fenris serenades.

Who really knew with those two weirdoes?

So, I was a bit caught by surprise when Fenris explained that his master was trying to capture him and strip the skin from his bones to get his precious investment back and Hawke replied with a come-hither smile, “Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf.”

The elf chuckled and pretended to hide it behind a small cough, and my eyebrows relocated somewhere to the vicinity of my hairline. Well. That was interesting. She had flirted with Anders and now she was flirting with Fenris. My friend was either keeping all her cards open or a shameless flirt. Or planning a cosy little get-together to see who would glow for her the brightest.

Damn, Hawke! Get your mind off the gutter already!

No big surprise when the elf admitted to having no money to pay us, and offering to do whatever it took to repay what we had just done for him. I swear, the various ways with which he could _repay_ us flashed in Hawke’s mind for a second, because she got a look like the fisherman who had just landed a nice, big, fat...fish.

But she eventually asked him to join us in our Deep Roads expedition.

And just like that, our little band of misfits had gained another member.

Oh. The infinite joy.

I just realised I haven’t said nug shit once in this chapter...

So, without further ado, all together now: NUG SHIT.

Just to be consistent, you know...

 

 


	6. Meeting the Suspects: Glowfight!

Before I go on any further, I think you need to know about this: the day Fenris and Anders met.

A brouhaha of epic proportions.

I am afraid there were no serenades, people. But there was a lot of dislike. I mean, heaps of it. Have you ever heard of love at first sight? It must be true, because I witnessed hate at first sight with my very own two eyes.

A good thing Hawke had been there, because the elf had taken one look at Blondie and sneered “another mage,” and Blondie had taken one look at the disgusted expression on Fenris’ face and had sneered “a mage hater, how original!”

“Now, now, boys,” Hawke had crooned to them, and I had nearly laughed out loud at the way the both relaxed at the sound of her voice, “play nicely, now. Or we’re leaving the park and you get no cookies.”

“Do not patronise me, Hawke,” the elf spat a minute later. “You keep dangerous company. I refuse to work with him.”

“She is patronising me, not you,” Anders protested. “And I refuse to work with such prejudice.”

Really? Fighting over who she was patronising? I couldn’t stop snickering.

“I will say it once and once only,” Hawke sighed. “You work with me, not each other. If any of you wish to desert me,” and she gave her best impression of a damsel in distress, eyes wide, lips trembling, the works, “you are free to leave.”

Awww. You should see the way they both scrambled to assure her that no, they would not desert her, they were hers to command, and please, Hawke, don’t be sad, the mage annoys the heck out me but I will put up with him, for now, and please Hawke, don’t give me that heartbreaking pout, I already dislike the living crap out of this elf, but I can ignore him, I can work with him, don’t worry.

Not with so many words, of course, but it was there, trust me.

Of course that changed preeetty damned quickly when Fenris learned Anders was housing a spirit inside him.

“Did I hear correctly?” he spat. “You are an abomination?”

“Well, shout a bit more,” Anders scoffed. “The Knight Commander didn't hear you.”

“Do you see yourself as harmless, then? An abomination that would hurt no one?”

Honestly, elf, why do you even say that? Abominations are so warm and cuddly after all, all they want to do is offer kids candy and cuddle with kittens and puppies and rainbows...

An obvious talent for stating the blatantly obvious, that elf.

But Anders sure gave as good as he got, which is why every time they addressed each other I just laid back and enjoyed the verbal sparring. And kept notes. Let’s not forget that.

“Like reaching into peoples’ chests and tearing their hearts out, you mean?” he glared at the elf, who immediately got defensive.

“I did that at the behest of no demon, mage!”

Honestly, who talks like that? At the behest of no demon! Pfttt. A former slave with a scholar’s vocabulary. Now that is something you don’t see every day.

“So, you admit it takes no demon for somebody to be a cold, vicious killer? Good!” Anders retorted and Hawke had to step in, pout, smile and use that special tone of voice that works with scared puppies and skittish horses.

Silence again for a while before Fenris started talking about Tevinter, and how Anders would make a great little magister and him replying that surely not all mages in Tevinter were all _that_ bad, to which Fenris started sprouting what I was sure were very inventive curses in Tevene. After all, he did have quite an extensive vocabulary.

Unfortunately, Hawke had by that time slipped into a shop to look at a new backpack –it is amazing how quickly those things gave out on us, but then again we were forced to carry around a inordinate (see? I can use big words too!) amount of junk. Barter economy and all that.

So, Anders started glowing a bit around the edges, and Fenris started glowing too, there in broad daylight, people and chickens running around in panic. I did _so_ want to see who could glow the brightest, but Bianca had other ideas and interrupted the whole thing with a well placed bolt.

“Mommy, mommy,” I told Hawke, thinning my voice, when she came out of the shop and looked at the now empty square with a questioning look, “Anders pulled Fenris’ pigtails again.”

“I thought I told both of you to play nicely,” she replied with a cheeky smile. She then looked from one petulant five-year-old to the other and her smile grew wider. “Don’t make me spank you.”

Can you blame them for fighting even harder after that?

 


	7. Meeting the Suspects: Isabela I

Isabela? Yeah, I had seen her. I live in the Hanged Man, remember? Of course I had seen her, and knew well enough to keep away from her. I’ve already told you, little goes on in Kirkwall that yours truly doesn’t know about, and in my turf, too? Pffftt. I knew about her before she even stepped foot in _my_ bar.

Isabela...oh, the stories I could tell you about her. She was a thief, a liar, a cheat and a whore. And that was on her _good_ days. On her bad days...I scampered. I have no qualms admitting it.

She hailed from Rivain, not that _anyone_ from Rivain ever had the good manners to hail or anything, and she lived up to the place’s reputation. She was as free as the winds of the high seas she so loved, and just as treacherous, as Hawke eventually found out.

Spoilers, Varric, watch the spoilers.

Ahem. I digress. I was there the day she met the Rivaini, too. It seemed to be a pattern with us. Every time she met someone important, every time something important happened to her, I was there. It’s like the fates conspired to have me be her official biographer. The only one I wasn’t there when she met, was Merrill.

I hate the outdoors, have I mentioned that? I can’t see what the appeal is. Lots of bugs, and dust, and mud clinging to my boots. Those are doe-skin boots I am wearing by the way, and I hate anything that tries to mess with them. Traps especially.

So, no shit, once more, there I was, as always, when she met the Rivaini. She walked into the Hanged Man late one afternoon, and there the pirate was, leaned against the bar’s counter gurgling down that swill that is very leniently called ale. I would have called it nug piss steeped in bird cage droppings and flavoured with sweaty socks, but again, that is me. Weird dwarf and all. I don’t like piss poor ale, thank you very much, I have my own supply. Not that I don’t drink the Hanged Man’s brew, I do, but I don’t have to enjoy it, do I?

 So, were was I? Yes, Hawke walked in, Isabela was leaning against the countertop, drinking and flashing the whole room with her scantily covered behind.

Let me make a pause here.

Isabela’s butt. Ahhh, a true masterpiece, a gem. Made my chest hair curl a bit more, let me tell you. No, no, I am not a letch, don’t get me wrong. But you hadn’t seen a truly glorious piece of ass until you saw the Rivaini’s. It literally made your fingers twitch. It didn't help any that she wore _no_ pants, just a short...skirt? No, it was not a skirt. Skirts tend to be wider than belts and hers wasn’t. It was a...covering, of a sorts, and a lousy one at that. Covered practically _nothing,_ to the everlasting enjoyment of the esteemed male patronage of the Hanged Man.

As for the rest of her assets...her balconies could make you weep, my friends. They were a work of freaking art. To this day, I have no idea what colour Isabela’s eyes are; those bodalicious tatas were straight in my face, due to height issues, and I seldom made the effort to look higher than them. Ah, a man could spend hours on those balconies...

Ahem. Long story that...AHEM!

But if you think that her appearance was an open invitation, you were sadly mistaken. Sure, she had lain on every flat rock in three countries, but twitch those fingers in her direction without her invitation, if you get my drift, and you soon found them broken. Isabela was no helpless little tavern wench, whose butt you pinch as she goes by just to hear her screech, though I dare any of you to do that to Norah and live to tell about it.

As a matter of fact, that day that Hawke walked in to meet her, she’d just been in a little fight with three, yes, you heard me, three men. Lucky was the name of the fellow that led them, and I think his mother named him that to make up for the fact that he was a few feathers short of a whole duck. I mean, the man had to have something on his side, and if skill or smarts wasn’t it –and it definitely wasn’t- then luck _had_ to be it.

So, after Rivaini dealt with those clowns, she and Hawke made their formal introduction, something in the lines of Isabela explaining she had lost her ship in a storm and stuff like that, and then she turned and asked Hawke to watch her back in a duel she had accepted by one of her former associates.

“I think I could manage watching your back,” I heard Hawke say while shooting Isabela an appraising look, and the ale went down the wrong pipe, let me tell you. And the Hanged Man’s ale...you don’t want that going down the _right_  pipe, let alone the wrong one. I coughed and splattered like a fool, and I don’t like that. I don’t like being surprised either, and by that point I thought I knew everything there was to know about my little rogue friend; I would never have guessed she swung both ways. 

Life had just gotten so, so much more interesting!

I hurried after Hawke as she was preparing to leave with Isabela, and she shot me a wink. Isabela greeted me politely, saying something  in the lines of “you are that dwarf, the one with the clever...mouth.”

Damn, but that woman could turn anything into an innuendo.

I laughed inwardly to think what would happen when the two glow boys met with Isabela. She was sin personified and that coupled with the fact that Hawke was shamelessly flirting with her as we walked to the appointed duel location, was sure to cause some fireworks. Either she and Hawke would get together and the two main heart-throbs of our little group would be left, literally, with their dicks in their hands, or there would be a free-for –all to win our charismatic leader’s attention.

In any case, one thing was certain.

I would freaking enjoy that!

 

 


	8. Meeting the Suspects: Isabela II

I am repeating myself here, I am well aware, but no shit, there I was, trekking behind Hawke as we made our way to Hightown that dark night to ‘watch Isabela’s back’. The pirate had gone on ahead of us to scout the area and I was just trying to keep up with Hawke as she nearly run to the designated spot.

Honestly, hasn’t anybody ever heard of walking? That girl had legs a mile long, and I...well, I didn’t. I still don’t. I’m a freaking dwarf, remember? The shortness of legs goes with the description.

So, there I  was, panting like a dog, trying to catch up with her.

“Hawke...” puff, puff,... “slow down, you slave driver,” puff puff. “We are not all blessed...” puff puff “...with legs up to our armpits!” puff puff.

I SO hate breaking a sweat.

Aveline chucked at that, that heartless red-haired shrew, and Bethany, my sweet Sunshine, even outright laughed. Bianca started twitching, she gets so easily insulted on my behalf.

Eventually we caught up with Isabela and then some raiders stormed into the square one of them screaming “that’s the wench! Gut her!”

So, a reminder to the Maker, the Stone, the Creators and those pesky Fate bitches: this here dwarf does NOT like to be set up. I repeat. Does NOT appreciate it. One bit. At all. To the slightest. It’s a no-no. An ah-ha. Could we please note it down and keep it in mind for next time? Thank you, oh powers that be.

Where was I?

We jumped right into battle, Isabela’s twin daggers twirling, Bethany raining fire and destruction on the raiders, Aveline using that shield of her like a battering ram and my lovely Bianca singing as she fired one bolt after the other.

And then...zooom, an arrow went past my ear and I turned to look at Hawke...with a bow?

Shit, that girl had thrown me another curveball. Hawke? With a bow?

Oh, come on!

How many surprises did the damned woman have up her sleeve? Sheesh. She was an archer too, and a damned good one. If I found out she could open locks and disarm traps as well, that was it. I was handing in my resignation.

Bianca was outraged, my friends. How had the sneaky rogue kept this hidden from us, and most importantly at all, where had that bow been hidden? She hadn’t pulled it out of her ass, had she?

I found out later. Her curved twin daggers could be joined to form an articulated bow shaft.

And I thought Bianca had an ingenious design...

You do, Bianca, I didn’t mean it like that, honestly. Shhh, my lovely. Daddy didn’t mean it.

Heh? Ah, what happened next. Yes, sorry for drifting off a bit. Bianca had a little jealous fit.

So, after we had defeated those sorry-ass excuses for raiders, we a slip of paper with their order and apparently, we were going to visit the Chantry again, oh, what joy. I'd always kind of liked that place, it was like a building full of sweet old grandmothers. But lately, it was becoming a bit...bloodstained. Honestly now, how come the place didn’t have guards at night or anything? It was fast becoming a haven for criminal activity, it seemed like everyone wanting to kill anyone went there after hours. Maybe because it was convenient? I mean you kill a few sorry sods, and then stay there to ask for absolution in the morning. Handy.

And did those sisters sleep or go into hibernation? How come none of them ever came to see what the unholy ruckus was?

Anyway, there we were, and this guy –Hander? Hahander? Ah, yes, Hayder!- appears, all stuttering and blubbering threats and shit. Apparently, Isabela dear had lost some relic a fellow named Castillion was looking for. Aaaand had set a whole ship full of slaves free.

I could see appreciation in Hawke’s eyes. She hated slavers. Did you want her to go all bloodthirsty and scary on you? Mention slavers and wham, instant temper.

Therefore, dear friends, when Isabela thrust her dagger with deadly accuracy into the chest of Hayder’s lacky, Hawke was rearing to go. And a good thing too, because that Hayder guy was one tough hombre. At some point Hawke had to give up on her fancy bow of hers, dismantling it into twin daggers again –I was stunned, the mechanism was amazingly elaborate yet easy to...okay, Bianca is giving me dirty looks and will...stop...now.

Eventually, we were victorious. There was a lesson to be learnt there. Messing with us was suicidal, it ensured you a quick, but often painful death. Hawke did get results, after all.

Hawke questioned Isabela about the relic and about that cargo of slaves she had released, and she explained they had been refuges that had paid Castillion to escape the blight; the bastard had enslaved them instead and Isabela had set them free.

I know, I know, that old thing with the whore with a heart of gold is such a cliché, but I guess that’s what the Rivaini was. And freedom; for her it was like a religion. Other people aspire to be happy, or rich, or virtuous, or whatever; she just wanted to be free. Free to go where she pleased, do what she pleased, do _whomever_ she pleased.

Hence the ‘whore’ thing. And do not get me wrong, I liked Isabela. It was hard not to. But that girl went round the block more often than Aveline’s guardsmen, and twice as many times in one night, if you get my drift. Never had I met a more promiscuous woman than her, ever. Even got in my smalls once, and...

Ahem. Long story that. Let’s just drop it like the hot potato that it is. Bianca is giving me right down murderous looks now.

Isabela turned to Hawke that night- after she had offered the pirate help with locating the relics- and calmly informed her that she would tag along for a while and bam! another member added to our little dysfunctional family. We had the best corner in the draw-in-as-many-weirdoes-as-possible market, it seemed. Hawke had a talent for attracting them, mark my words.

So, the Rivaini turns to Hawke just before making off, and says, “I have a room in the Hanged Man, if you are looking for...company later.”

Now, just a guess, but she wasn’t inviting Hawke to exchange cross-stitch designs. Just a guess.

Hawke just smiled, a smile as wickedly sinful as Isabela, and winked. “I might drop by. But I’m hungry...Cookies? Pie?”

“Oh, sweetie pie,” Isabela winked back. “We’ll find something for you to eat.”

Oh, ho, ho. Fireworks. Sunshine groaned, muttered a chastising “Sister! Will you get your mind off the gutter for once?” and Aveline facepalmed herself.

I just laughed. Well, well, _well_. Apparently, Hawke _did_ enjoy a nice hooha on the side.

As Isabela sauntered off, her scantily clad behind swaying seductively -and boy, could she sway that ass!- I am sure I wasn’t the only one watching and...appreciating the goods.

I swear, I even caught Aveline looking.

The next night was the first one we all got together for a night of playing cards at the Hanged Man, by the way, which soon became a tradition.

And of course, Isabela made an entrance, an impression, and...a mess.

Because the two Bs, Blondie and Broody, were there.

Ah, nug shit.

 

 

 


	9. Interlude: The Hanged Man

So, picture this: the table in my room, my palatial suite at the Hanged Man. Me, sitting at the head of the table, Hawke sitting on my left, bitching and moaning all the time about how short the chairs were and how short the table was, and that she had to stretch her legs to get comfortable.

Excuuuse me! Dwarven table, here, I hate my legs dangling of the edge of the chair like a five-year-old, thank you very much. When in Orlais, after all, do as the Orlesians do.

Anders walks in, followed by Fenris immediately afterwards. So. Big question. Who gets to sit next to Hawke?

Whomever is faster.

And that was Isabela.

The damned rogue appeared out of nowhere, and plopped her ample behind on the chair right next to Hawke. Then, as Fenris and Anders were looking daggers at her, she blew them a kiss, and wrapped an arm around Hawke’s shoulders, asking “Oh, sweet thing...did you like my cookies, last night?”

Yes. I knew it. Glowboys had gotten left with their glowy dicks in hand.

Anders’ mouth was gapping like a fish, and Fenris had a cold, murderous look as his gaze slid over the lusty pirate.

“Do you like what you see, sweet thing?” she asked and he huffed and turned away.

“Come, now Isabela,” Hawke smiled at her new best friend, and then formally introduced them all. “This here stud muffin with the lyrium lines is Fenris, ex-slave, current mercenary, deadly with his sword and...fist.”

Isabela arched an eyebrow.

“The other beef cake over there is Anders, healer, apostate, ex-Grey Warden plus host to the spirit of Justice. Don’t cheat him at cards. Do not. Ever. Justice won't approve.”

I snorted at that. Oh, no Justice would definitely not approve.

“Boys, this is Isabela, our newest party member. She used to be a pirate and captain of her own ship. Anders, she supports mage freedom,” and Anders’ face lit up at the words, “Fenris, she set a whole cargo ship full of slaves free,” and the elf even offered Isabela what passed as a smile in his books. His lip turned a fraction of a fraction of an inch upward. On one corner only, too. That was it, but for Broody, that equalled a bit, toothy, radiant smile.

Sour puss.

Anyway, Isabela gave a courteous bow and then gave the men the once over.  Like, a real slow, lewd, oh, you-are-so-yummy once over. And they both blushed, poor little mice, to be played with like that by such a dangerous...pussy. Cat. Pussycat. Ahem.

“Hawke, I like you even more now...”she purred to the rogue that had a wide, amused look on her face. “Are they yours?”

Hawke gave a magnanimous nod. “Help yourself, Isabela,” she answered and I swear, the men looked a bit disappointed at her answer.

“I belong to no one!” Fenris spat and Anders rolled his eyes.

“Keep your paws to yourself, pirate. I remember you from the Pearl,” Anders folded his arms on his chest.

“Oh, you are that mage, the one with the electricity trick. That was nice,” Isabela’s eyes lit with amusement. “I thought you looked familiar!”

“Electricity trick?” Hawke arched a curious brow and I leaned in to listen. New information. Gets me every time; I’m a sucker for information. Curiosity may have eaten the cat, but at least she died satisfied and well-informed, you know?

Isabela turned to Hawke and whispered something in her ear, and by the way her eyebrows rose and the look she shot to Anders, I’m guessing it was a description of the so called electricity trick. Now, people, I have a rather vivid imagination –trust me, it’s a curse sometimes- and I could put two and two together and  get a pretty good idea of what the trick was, anyway. Thanks very much, but I’ll pass. I wouldn’t want a mage zapping me in the jinglebangers, uh-uh, no, no. But these girls seemed intrigued by it, beats me why.

Like I said, women. Go figure.

Anders by now, was sporting a very un-Anders-like self-satisfied smirk, and Fenris was literally fuming.

But then Isabela went and did it again, asking Fenris about the fisting thing, and suggesting ways it could be out to better use.

Eventually, Hawke had to step in and calm spirits down, telling Isabela to stop bothering her eye candy, which was good, because I swear, Isabela was that close to getting overly familiar with the insides of her chest cavity.

And you know, should that happen, those impressive...ahem...assets of hers would be ruined. A shame, for sure.

Trying to help diffuse the situation, I produced a pack of cards and innocently asked “Wicked Grace, anyone?”

And thus began the time honoured tradition of me and Isabela skinning them.

Yeah, even Hawke. She was shrewd, and had those talented lithe little fingers, but she was no match for me and the Rivaini.

As for Anders and Fenris...those boys still owe me money.

If I ever get my hands on those little pieces of shit, I’ll...

 

 


	10. Meeting the Suspects: Merrill I

So. Merrill.

I wasn’t there when she met Merrill. How come, you will ask? Easy, I will reply. Merrill was a Dalish elf, and while there are many things that rankle me about those elves, the thing that irks me the most is that they live in the wild. Like literally, out there. In the back of beyond, around trees and flowers and all that shit.

Bah. How uncivilized. I hate the outdoors. I am closer to the dust, people, like really close to dust level. I hate trudging in the dirt, I hate getting my boots dirty, I hate breaking a sweat. Bugs bug me, trees make me itch, and flowers make me sneeze. Really, I can’t see what the appeal is. City dwarf here, thank you very much.

So that day when she had gone to meet Merrill, I wasn’t there. I had excused myself, saying that I had guild business to attend to.

On hindsight, I wish I hadn’t. Apparently, that witch-person made another appearance and I would have loved to see that. It’s not every day you meet the legendary Witch of the Wilds, after all. According to Isabela, though, I didn’t miss much; she sprouted some obscure shit like ‘we stand on the precipice of change’ and ‘when the time comes, leap’ and stuff like that. Well, she can go leap herself, off a tall building preferably, because I understand what she said upset Hawke a bit, and if there is one thing I like even less that being set up, being outdoors and my brother- not necessarily in that order, mind you- is having my pal upset.

 It makes Bianca twitch. And when Bianca twitches, shit flies.

But Hawke made it up to me. For not being there, I mean. She plopped right down on the table in front of me, and leaned in to give me a mischievous smile.

“I have a present for you,” she said, and made me follow her all the way to the Alienage.

Have I told you about that place? You have to go through Lowtown to get there, and despite the rather unpromising name, Lowtown isn’t that bad. Just... more likely to be destroyed by tidal waves than Hightown. The Alienage though...the tree tries, it does its best, it really does. But it will never be a pretty sight, no serah, ah-ha. It looks, smells and feels like an overcrowded nug pen. Only that the nugs are cuter. And with pointed ears.

And speaking of cute, Hawke marches right into one of the houses there- and I use the term loosely- and gives me a bow and a flowing wave towards one of the prettiest, most huge-eyed, cute-as-a-button, adorable little elf.

 “Varric,” she said, a mile playing on her lips, “meet Merrill. She is on loan from the Dalish.”

The little elf curtsied and then fluttered around the room, a million words a second escaping her mouth.

"Oh it's so nice to meet you. How do you do? I'm Merrill, but of course you know that already, don't you? Of course you do, Hawke just told you.  
Whatcan I get you? I have....water. I think. Elgar'nan, why is everything such a mess around here? I swear I had some cups around here somewhere.  
Oh, I know, you can hold your hands out, and I'll pour you some water....Oh. I'm blubbering, aren't I? I'll just...stop...now."

Pause. Deep breath. Fidgeting. Then on again.

“What do you do? Are you in Hawke’s group? She said I can come along any time I want, isn’t it exciting?”

Jumping up and down. Then on again, turning to Hawke this time.

“This city is amazing!” she started again, and I was worried that she didn’t get enough breath in her between sentences. Honestly, I expected her to topple down any minute, due to lack of oxygen. “I just saw someone getting mugged today! Right outside! It was fascinating!”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “Someone gets mugged outside your door and you think it’s fascinating?” she said with a small smile. “Wait till you see a murder! Oodles of fun!”

“It must be the Alienage greeting...” the elf said and I faceplamed myself. “It hasn’t happened to me yet. They must not like me.”

“Oh, Hawke...” I laughed. “Can we keep her? I promise to take care of her; I’ll walk her twice a day and get her a blanky and a chew toy.”

Hawke’s smile just got wider. “I knew you’d like her,” she said.

Well...I must have missed the sign “Come all ye weirdoes” that Hawke had posted somewhere.  We seemed to be amassing quite the collection.

Daisy was cute, and naïve, and so much fun to tease; sure, most of the times the teasing flew right over her pretty little head, but hey, that was half the fun of it.

And I have a soft spot for cute, lost, little puppies.

Just...don’t tell anyone.

 

 

 


	11. Meeting the Suspects: Merrill II

 

To say that Fenris didn't like Merrill, was to understate the understated. Dogs and cats? This was worse. More like...I don’t know...dragons and knights. Or nugs and hungry dwarves. She made his hair stand to end until he resembled a white haired porcupine. With a bad hair day. No solidarity among elves, I guess.

Anders and Fenris never saw eye to eye, but one thing they agreed: Anders didn't like Merrill either.  She made Justice brittle. He had this totally disgusted expression on his face whenever she was near, like he had just stepped into a steamy pile of nug shit. No solidarity among mages either, then.

Ah, yes, Merrill was a blood mage. For Fenris the second part was enough, but combine it with the blood thing, and you had a vexed elf. For Anders, blood magic was an affront to his ‘Maker given gift’. It was funny seeing the two of them agree. I think even they were shocked by it.

Poor Merrill. Even she, clueless as she was, could understand the dislike coming off them in waves.

But Hawke liked her, because, of course, Hawke was drawn to weirdness. Her little attraction magnet was seriously warped. Honestly, you’d think the Glow Duet would be grateful for that, after all  they weren’t exactly lacking in the weirdness department, instead the grumbled and bitched about Merrill being a part of the group like she had personally offended them.

And Maker bless her, she didn’t make things easier for herself.

“Ser Pounce-a-lot... who knighted him?” She asked Anders on the very second day she met him. “Did he have a little sword, or just his claws? I bet he had a dashing cap with a feather in it!”

“Would you stop making fun of my cat?” Anders was nearly snarling by then.

“Oh... no hat, then?”

See what I mean?

She wasn’t any more careful around Fenris either.

“You've probably never met a Dalish before, have you?” That was the first time she met him. And guess how many shits he gave about the Dalish. Yep. None.

“ I wouldn't know.” He just tried to brush her off.

But Merrill wouldn’t know how to take a hint if it came up to her, bonked her on the head, and screamed in her ear.

“I'm sure you'd be able to tell. Dalish aren't much like the elves in the cities.” She said, to which Fenris replied “ The smug sense of superiority does give you away.”

She just looked at me, her huge eyes swimming with questions and I shrugged.

“He uses big words like that, Daisy. I’ll get you a dictionary.”

That wasn’t the only thing I got her. She had a talent for getting lost, which still boggles my mind. How can someone who has been prancing around the wilderness all their life get lost so easily? No landmarks in the wilderness, right?

But get lost she did, and often. I got her a ball of twine as a joke, and she ended up using it every day. Soon, there were strands of twine leading out of the Alienage to all possible directions, until you would think a twine-spinning spider had made its lair there. Someone would cut down the mess once people found themselves caught in it, but after a while you would see new ones spread out.

The seamstress in the Alienage square got a free supply of thread, though.

And before you start asking and winking and speculating, no Merrill and I are _not_ a couple. Never were, never will be. I’ve told you before people, Bianca holds my heart, and she is a demanding mistress. Besides, have you ever seen half-dwarven half-elven babies? No? There is a reason for it; the poor things are U-G-L-Y. Short legs, pointed ears, scraggly beard. Huge eyes on a cranky dwarven face, or a huge crooked nose on those delicate pointed faces. Ugly? That’s an understatement, really. And the physical appearance is the least of those poor kids’ problems. Pair a dwarf and an elf, and you get a kid that likes to frolic _underground_. Sorry, but the very idea gives me the hibbi-jibbies.

 It’s just that Merrill was and still is unbearably cute. I have a soft spot for cuteness. I go all soft and mushy and awwww and ahhhh and coo. Don’t tell anyone. It’s embarrassing.

And yes, there was also the fact that Merrill got smitten with Hawke before you could say halla. Like Halla, my mane is Hawke, bam, elf is a goner. She got flustered and blabbering, well, _more_ flustered and blubbering, whenever Hawke even smiled at her.

Another reason why the two Sparkies didn't like her I guess, because it was soon quite apparent that there was quite the competition going on for our fair leader’s attention. Isabela got handsy and raised the whole seductiveness routine up a notch, Anders looked at her as if she was a fluffy cute kitten and Fenris’ voice dropped a whole octave when talking to her. 

And Merrill just blubbered up a storm.

Which made Hawke laugh and the others sigh and shoot her irritated looks.

And then of course, Hawke had to go and add more emotional baggage to our little dysfunctional family. Let’s see. We had a possessed freedom-fighter apostate, a mage-hating ex-slave elf, a misguided Dalish, a pirate whore, the most magnificent dwarf ever, and a red-haired freakingly scary guardswoman.

What was missing?

Why, an ex-prince that had found the Maker

Cue Choir Boy.

But I was telling you about Merrill. Now, Merrill, or Daisy as I called her, had been kicked out of her Dalish clan. When I asked her why, she told me it was because of a mirror. Now, the first thought to have crossed my mind was that she had broken one, and the Dalish were a bit overly superstitious. But it turned out, it was a special mirror, and she was trying to fix it because she was trying to recapture a piece of her people’s past. With the help of a friendly ‘spirit’.

Okay, that was when I first thought, what have we gotten ourselves into this time?

The friendly spirit, that had taught her blood magic to help her, was a demon. Yeah, yeah, the same I-will-possess-you-and-turn-you-inside-out-and-make-you-a-butt-ugly-abomination kind of demon. And no, there are no cuddly, friendly demons, no matter what Merrill thought.

So that girl either had a few crayons missing from her colouring box, or she was seriously crazy. Not all her hallas in the same pen, if you get my drift. A few chimes short of a bell toll. One archdemon short of a full blight. A few elves short of a frolic. Only 50 cards in her playing deck.

You get the idea.

 I couldn’t for the life of me understand what was so important about that damned mirror, and it still boggles my mind that she was willing to face being cast out from her clan in order to fix that thing.

And the poor thing seemed so sad and lonely some times...so I pestered Hawke to take her along as often as possible. It helped of course that she was a delight to tease, blushing so adorably whenever Isabela and I threw innuendos her way –when  she realised they were innuendos, of course.

Her trademark sentence: “Oh...did I miss something dirty, again?”

Of course, the fact that she made the Glowy Duet bristle, might, _just might_ , have had a small, itchy-bitsy part in making me ask Hawke to take her along.

Little imp of a dwarf and all, you know. Hehe.

As for Hawke, she treated Merrill like a kid sister, the only other person other than Bethany she was tender and kind and not at all perverted with.

I don’t know if that means she liked her or she... _liked_ her.

But Merrill was like that, brought out the cuddle-bear in you.

Mark my words though; that Serah Nice Guy Demon of hers that would absolutely not hurt a fly and was all sweet and helpful was going to be trouble, like nug-shit-flying-shit-storm-coming trouble.

Make that with a capital T.

Mark my words. This dwarf is never wrong.

I’m just awesome-sauce like that.


	12. Meeting the Suspects: Sebastian I

Some of the jobs we did we had to look for, but most of the times they were thrust upon us. Funny, but yes. We would just be strolling along, and BAM! Please, save my kitten from the tree. Please, find my wife. Please, find my brother. Please find me my ass because I can’t find it with two hands and a torch.

It seemed, like Hawke had once commended, that nobody in this city could take care of their business on their own. It shouldn’t be called Kirkwall. It should be called Uselessville.

Anyway, there we were, and there I was also, no shit, walking towards the Chantry, for once not doing anything, just taking a stroll. We had the Glow and Grumble Duet with us, and Hawke and me were happily ignoring their brooding mugs. Well, no, technically not, because Hawke would once in a while turn back to send one of the two boys a coy smile, just to make the other one bristle. Then rinse and repeat, but to the other glowboy next time. Hehehe... Hawke was such a cocktease. I loved that girl!

So we walk into the Chantry courtyard and we see this guy, that was dressed in the most glowy, pristine white armour you can imagine, all silver and dragonbone and gleaming chainmail, nailing a notice on the Chantry board.

Once I saw the Grand Cleric addressing the man with his first name, “Sebastian! Stop this madness!” I took a bit more notice. Okay. Tall. Nearly everyone is tall in comparison to a dwarf, of course, but that guy was giving me a serious crick in my neck, even from a distance. Auburn hair, okay, nothing special there, either, a regal nose, ramrod straight posture. Combine it with the pricey armour and the conclusion was easy: noble-born.

The Grand Cleric was talking again. “The Chantry cannot condone revenge, Sebastian!”

The tall Sebastian person just gave her an irked look and went ahead and posted his note anyhow, and then started walking away. The old biddy, sorry, the Grand Cleric, took the note off and waved it in the air, shouting, “This is murder!”

Vzoommm. The guy had drawn a bow in minus three seconds, notched an arrow faster than you can say Andraste, and pined the note back onto the board, ripping it off the hands of a shocked Elthina. By that time we were close enough to them to hear him reply.

“No. Whet happen’d to me family was murrrrderrr.”

He then turned towards and walked right past Hawke. Okay. I felt moisture on my jacket and it was Hawke drooling. I looked up to see her with a dazed look on her face. Hmmm....maybe those cornflower blue eyes? Or how tall the guy was? Or his-I hate to admit it- impressive archery skill? Maybe the posture and the slim boyish hips?

Nah. It was the accent. And the voice. _That_ had made her swoon.

I sighed. “I guess we are checking that note up, heh?” I ventured a guess.

“Varric,” she breathed and turned her head over her shoulder to look at him go, making both the Glow Boys scowl, “We are _taking_ that note up, no matter _what_ it is.”

Anders scoffed. “Your standards are slipping, Hawke,” he said. “He might want us to slaughter innocents, or sacrifice virgins to Andraste.”

“Done!” she said. “Find me some virgins. No...find me s’me virrrgins.”

Fenris blushed.

“Arrree ye a virrrgin, Fenrris?” she smiled coyly at him and he huffed and turned away.

“Are you going Starkhaven on me, Hawke?” I asked, laughing. “I hate to inform you, but that guy probably doesn’t glow blue.”

She smiled dreamily.

“But he’s sooo shiny!”

Hawke the magpie.

Shhhhit.

 


	13. Meeting the Suspects: Sebastian II

Trust Hawke to do as she said and do it quickly. Poor Flint company mercenaries never stood a chance. It was ‘ah, someone is attacking us’, oomph, gurgle, die. Three time over, because the damned group had split, and we had to trek ALL over Kirkwall and the neighbouring countryside – yuk- to find them. 

By the time we were done, we were all dead on our feet, even Anders with his Grey Warden stamina, and yours truly with his dwarven stamina. We all thought we would call it a day and get some rest before we went to the Chantry- of course, where else?- to collect our pay.

But nooo...Hawke had to see that nice, shinny, impossibly-tall Sebastian person again. Like, now. Right now. Come on people, move it, now. Got to have me some nice, blue-eyed, r-rolling, delicious-voice piece of hunk, now. Right now.

As of that couldn’t wait for the next day. I even told her so, and she looked at me with a dreamy, far-away expression painted on her face, before she cheekily smiled, and said

“Varric...Did you see that man? He was...Makerrr,” she purred.

So, as much as my poor little toes were screaming at me from inside my doe-skin boots, I couldn’t miss that. Could I?

Apparently, neither could Anders, or Fenris, or Isabela. The glowboys huffed and puffed and nearly blew the house down and Isabela gave her a wink.

“I agree. That piece of fine Starkhaven ass was just too yummy, we can’t let it wait until tomorrow. Who knows who might come snatch it up?”

Isabela. Thinking with her snatch, again.

Not that Hawke wasn’t, of course.

Which of course didn't  escape the notice of the males in the group, who were positively fuming.

“We are allowing this group  to be directed by a female ’s recalcitrant hormones,” Fenris murmured and Hawke paused, raised an eyebrow and looked at me.

“You’re leading with your cunt,” I translated.

I think that was the first indication that Fenris got of just how ‘recalcitrant’ her hormones really were. She twirled on him, and he raised his eyes to find himself face to face with her, scant inches separating them. She smiled to him, a dangerous, sultry, suggestive smile –I swear the temperature went up a few degrees- and purred “Give it a chance, Fenris and you’ll learn to just _love_ my recalcitrant hormones...”

“She means her cunt.” I helpfully supplied.

“That too,” Hawke whispered and then casually tucked one of the elf’s stray locks of hair behind his ear. Now, I can’t be sure, but I do think she might have lingered on that ear a bit more than strictly necessary. I can’t swear to it, of course, but the flashing of Broody’s markings were a pretty good indication. Just me, of course. I might be wrong, but my magnificent chest hair has never led me astray before, and it was positively _curling_ from all the sexual tension in the air.

She then turned casually away. I just stood there for a while, enjoying the wide-eyed, blushing, oh-my-sweet-Maker look on the elf’s face. Isabela chuckled along with me, and of course made the situation even worse by purring “awww...I wonder if he blushes _all over_...”

The conversation was cut short by our arrival at the Chantry, and lo and behold, the tall Sebastian guy was right inside, standing by one of the side doors.

I guess no snatch had managed to snatch him up while we had been traipsing around the city, killing off his mercenaries.

 He turned to us, and may the Paragons, Merrill’s Creators, the Maker and every fucking deity ever created help me, but I nearly keeled over with laughter. He had the face of Andraste...as a belt buckle. The _fucking_ face of Andraste, oh and that image almost did me in, I don’t know how I managed to control myself. I mean, every time the guy got a...rise, he probably shoved his dick right into Andraste’s face! Had the guy put that to show how devoted to her he was? Well, even I’d be devoted to a deity that sucked my dick every time I had a... Oh, Maker! Excuse me a moment, while I wipe the tears of my face.

Hawke met my eyes for a moment and I gestured towards the belt buckle; I saw her eyes bulge and a corner of her mouth rise up as well, but then she controlled herself.

“Your family can rest now,” she respectfully said, or as respectfully as she could manage, which wasn’t much. “Their killers are gone.”

“Ex..excuse me...who are...My post to the Chanter’s Board? Did Elthina let that stay? I thought for sure nobody even read that...But you say..you killed them?”

Isabela sighed at the rolled rrrs and that velvety soft voice. I’m sure Hawke wanted to, as well. I saw her shiver when he said ‘for sure’, well, actually it sounded more like ‘foshurrre’.

So okay, if you wanted to nail Hawke, apparently you needed a modest-to-above-average nice voice, an accent, or you had to glow.

He continued speaking, telling Hawke how comforting it was his parents were now resting easily in their graves.

There are a lot of words with an r in them in this language, have you ever noticed that? I did that night, because whenever he spoke one of those, and rolled that r around like that, Hawke nearly melted.

Turns out he was not just noble-born, he was a Prince. Sole remaining heir to the Vael family of Princes of Starkhaven. And...a chantry brother?

Oh, hahahahaha. Oh, my Maker. I can’t stop laughing when I remember the look on Hawke’s face when he told her this. Priceless, I tell you! I can't...I don’t... Oh, Maker!

Ahhh...I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep that in. When I remember...I have to stop, before I get started again.

Anyway, the ex-Prince thanked Hawke for her help, promised to pay her royally once he got his throne back and left to petition the Viscount for help in his effort to retake Starkhaven.

Hawke pouted a bit, I guess she was hoping he would repay her services another way, but didn’t really dwell on it too much...after all, she had enough candidates for that. At that moment, we had no idea that we would later meet up with him again, and even find a nice little niche in our little group for him, you know, between the mage and the mage hater.

Right behind Hawke, of course, so every time she turned over her shoulder she had a nice view of her eye-candy.

Of course, these three had more issues and hang-ups between the three of them than the rest of Thedas combined, but hey, Hawke liked a challenge.

And I enjoyed every minute of it.

Except for the Deep Roads, of course.

 

 


	14. Meeting the suspects: The mabari

Hawke’s mabari.

A dog, obviously. Hawke was Fereldan, after all, and the title of ‘dog lord’ went with the territory; she couldn’t _not_ have a mabari, could she?

Of course, on a side note, mabaris don’t really resemble dogs all that much, do they? You think of a dog and you get the image of a playful little creature, one you throw a stick or a ball for and he scampers to retrieve it, right?

No. Not mabaris.

These...beasts, for lack of a better word, were twice as big as a normal dog, with three time as many muscles, and four times as many sharp, intimidating teeth. And so damned smart, they put many humans to shame, let me tell you.

Hawke’s mabari was absurdly called Cuddles. Now, Cuddles was a monster. The last thing you thought of when you saw that thing was a cuddle, especially during battle. You thought of soiling your pants, you thought of screeching like a little girl, but not of cuddles. Far from cuddles. Trust me.

Hawke of course, being the true Fereldan that she was, just _adored_ that slobbering, lumbering beast of a dog, and he _lived_ for her; after all, mabaris are fiercely loyal and devoted.

Which brings me to Anders and Fenris, because that dog simple loathed the sight of both of them.

Anders was a cat person, okay, so I understood why he gave the dog a wide, wide berth every time Hawke brought Cuddles along with her. It might have had something to do with the way Cuddles had cuddled up to him the first time he had seen him, of course. Having a huge mabari throw you to the ground and cuddle up to your neck with its tender jaws could do that to you.

I didn’t expect Cuddles to dislike Fenris, though, so I was a bit surprised he cuddled up to the elf’s ass the way it did, the first time it saw him. Good thing Hawke managed to make him let go, because the elf would be sitting rather lopsidedly from there on, if you get my drift.

He adored Isabela and Merrill, though, beats me why, and always nuzzled up to them, acting like a huge hyper puppy, begging to be petted.

Maybe it was a male thing, and he didn’t want any competition for his mistress’ attention. He was rather protective of Hawke; I swear when she made eyes to Fenris or Ander or any other man for that matter, the poor dog got an expression that was the canine equivalent of rolling one’s eyes and saying “not another loser!”

But he liked me well enough, which was a good thing, because my face was almost at the same level with his mouth. Other than bathing me in dog breath, I never had any problems with him.

Of course, I am not simply awesome, I am resourceful as well, and I always carried some dog treats with me.  Better lose a few coppers than a few fingers, I always say.

Ahh, Cuddles...Poor little pooch. Hawke was devastated when she lost him, but that is a story for another time...I’ll get to it, don’t worry.

Hawke now had enough people to form an impressive adventuring group, just what we needed to gather those pesky 50 gold sovereigns and take part in the Deep Roads expedition, and expedition I later came to call Deep Shit.

Because that is exactly what we found ourselves wallowing in.

Deep. Shit.

 


	15. Adventuring 101: Advice on how to build the perfect group of adventurers.

Advice on how to build the perfect group of adventurers.

From yours truly, the epitome of awesomeness, Varric Tethras.

First. Get a leader. If you want to be the leader, make sure you’re up to it. You must be good at what you do, of course, and a certain level of attractiveness is a plus. Nobody wants to follow around someone who is...disagreeable to the eye, after all. If you’re butt-ugly, just forget about it. You had better also be in possession of a good, strong, solid name. I wouldn’t follow around a Dick or a Sue, even if they were Andraste’s reincarnation. I’m not saying you must have a fancy name, like Arimanthes, or Hippolita, or Veronique. You can go by last name, if you want, as long it’s something strong, something solid, that makes an impression. In other words, people, if your name is Hawke, use it. If it’s Butts, don’t. Self explanatory, really. Who would ever want to be manning Butts’ rear?

Not this dwarf.

As far as leaders come, a certain something tragic in your past wouldn’t hurt either. It makes the whole hero-out-to-save-the-world-whilst-battling-his-own-personal-demons thingy a bit more powerful. If you have led a charmed existence so far, make something up. Or meet a handsome, incredibly talented dwarf that will do it for you.

Second. Choose the party members carefully. There are a lot of factors to consider here, so let me walk you right through them.

  1. NO discrimination. Get at least a token sample of all races. You don’t want to be called a racist, do you? So, get at least a dwarf, at least one elf, and a few humans. Add a dog in, too. Or a cat. And as many females as males, because sexist is also such an ugly slur. Besides, you will need both for some romances to bloom and add spice to the undoubtedly epic story you will leave behind, or, cue dwarf, someone else will write about you.



 

  1. Get it balanced. Don’t make a whole mage group...it will take just one tiny, flimsy dragon to chew you all up. Don’t have them all rogues either. You’ll end up stealing so much from each other that in the end you’ll be in nug shit up to your eyebrows. Not to mention, have you ever seen a group of all rogues trying to disarm a bomb? They all go “I’ll do it!”, “No, I’ll do it,” “No, no, let me, you’re not doing it right!” and then CABBOOEE. And it goes without saying, a group with all warriors is as dull as mouldy bread. All they do is compare their swords all day. So, keep it balanced. Have you heard of the five Ss? A slasher, a smasher, a sneak, a  specialist and a sharpshooter. If I had to add to that, I’d say every group needs a sixth S, a slut, because you know...tension relief. But that’s just me. Ignore me.



 

  1. Appearance. If you are going to be travelling along with a bunch of people, my friends, at least choose the ones that are pretty. Give us storytellers a hand, come on now! How are we supposed to make an epic saga about you without a hint of romance thrown in? And how will the romance ever be believable if your intended Love Interest, what we authors call LI for short, looks like the south end of a north bound donkey? So, do us, and your future name, a favour: shop for quality. Get a page out of Hawke’s book; every single person in her group was weird in their own way, had heaps of issues to resolve, but let’s face it, we were a band of LOOKERS. Anders? That ruggedly handsome apostate badass persona, that troubled past. Fenris? Drool worthy, killer voice, puppy eyes, angst and heartache. Sebastian? Please. The man was a fucking PRINCE. Isabela? Sin personified. Merrill? Cute and adorable. Bethany? Sweet enough to make your teeth rot. Yours truly? Women swooned by the sheer manliness of my chest hair, my debonair air and my caustic humour. Aveline?...Well, there is an exception to every rule. Even this one. Not that she was...homely or anything, but...anyway, I should better stop because that woman still scares the living shit out of me, and I value my fingers unbroken, thank you very much.



Now, let’s just say you have the perfect group. What do you do next?

First and foremost, find an epic dispute and choose a side. You must be fighting for something. Just adventuring will probably get you mentioned once or twice, like, “oh, that band of adventurers, Butts’ group, once fought a dragon”. But take sides in an epic war, and you have it made. Doesn’t really matter what side you take, that depends on what rocks your boat; you want to side with the meanies, do it. Want to be all righteous and on the side of Justice? I’ll introduce you to Anders. Closest you will EVER get to Justice, trust me. Regardless, choose a side, even if it is not to choose a side at all. Fight for something: fight the blight, run away from the blight, take a side in the mage-templar conflict, fight for the rights of elves, , I don’t know, champion the right of geese herders to use only white goose feathers to stuff mattresses with. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter.  


Then, find a suitable ‘lair’. If you are the bad guys, make it dark and gloomy, like a bat-infested cave, or a castle with skeletons hanging down in the dungeons. Good guys tend to go with taverns and inns and other such food and drink purveying establishments. Do take care though, the name and ambience of the place must be suited to your adventurous ways. I’d rather die than hold regular group meetings in ‘Madam Josephine’s Tea and Biscuits Parlour’. The Hanged Man is a fine example. Hell, you can even get away with The Pink Oyster, although the crowd there is a bit...suspect. The friendly bartender and the occasional overfriendly drunk is a must, of course, as are the occasional bar brawls. The bad poet is a plus. If you get one of those, hold tight with both hands, and never let go.

After that, all you have to do is start looking for jobs. Start easy, you know, rescue a few kittens off the trees, find a couple of misplaced scarves or the occasional missing pommel. Don’t go into anything major before your group has some experience under their belt, and make sure that experience is carefully attributed. Don’t expect to hear a choir of heavenly voices announcing that, for example, your swordsman has gone up a level of expertise. _It doesn’t work that way_. You don’t get points the more people you kill, so train your group. Teach them new skills. Don’t expect them to one day wake up and say, “Oh, I have gained a new ability.” Buy them books, find them tutors, analyse what went wrong in the previous battle and train, train, train. Especially the mages, give them homework, make them learn new spells, even if it means saying something like “Anders, go get the book of force spells, I need to see what you have learned.” Hell, even give them detention if they aren’t following up on the lessons. I know for a fact that Hawke made Anders study, and he had gotten ‘quiet time’ more often than you would think.

Another important tip: keep a record. Hawke wouldn’t have gone very far if I hadn’t been there, keeping a careful account of what jobs needed to be done, and what jobs we had done already. So, I scribbled and scribbled, and thank the Maker for that, because Hawke was such a scatterbrain, we would have been forced to go back and ask “eh...excuse me...someone around here wanted us to go somewhere and do something, was that you?” Keep notes, people. I don’t know about you, but there was no magic map with big, bright yellow arrows to show where we had to go to get the damned job done. We had to note everything down, that was my job, and I did it pretty damned well, if I may say so myself. And sure, all tunnels and underground caves look a bit alike, but if it weren’t for my supreme skill as a map maker, we’d still be down there, wondering around like lost children.

Bottom line, get a dwarf as awesome as me, people, you are not going to survive this without me.

No, I do not hire out. Next question? Shoot them now that you can people, because I need to start telling you about our quests next.

I know, let’s do a FAQ. No. Not a fuck. A FAQ. Frequently asked questions. Shoot them to me, and I’ll try to answer. Truthfully, of course, do not insult me.

When have I ever _not_ been truthful?

Just so that we are clear though, Bianca’s name and the whole enchilada of how she got it, is not an acceptable question.

And no spoilers.

Le sigh. I’m afraid I’m going to regret this.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When this chapter was first published on Fanfiction net, I had a score of people that sent questions for the FAQ that Varric requested, and the next chapter was the one with his answers. I'm going to post the next chapter too, although it will look a little disjointed, and also do a new chapter with whatever questions Varric gets in this posting of the story.  
> Varric is eagerly awaiting your questions, so shoot!


	16. FAQ answers, new chapter

So, my intrepid little adventurer wannabes.  Not many of you asked questions this time, which really makes my life easier, on one hand, and your lives shorter on the other. Because you have not been paying attention to my stories, I fear, and that will probably end up with you as dragon fodder. Just saying. Having such a fountain of knowledge and experience at your disposal and not taking advantage of it...anyways, it’s your head on the line, don’t you come crying when you meet your untimely –and well-deserved- end.

As I’ve just said, I have the impression you are not paying too much attention...I said no spoilers people, and I distinctly remember saying that you can ask one question. One. Lift one finger up, come on, and count after me. _One_. And that’s it, easy, isn’t it? Oh, and by the way, which part of the whole name-under-which-to-adventure part didn’t you understand?  There’s only one half-decent name among the lot of you...all three of you.

Le sigh. I already regret this.

**Kamille.**

  1. _Which one of the companions do you ship with Hawke?_
  2. _If you could change one single event, what would it be?_
  3. _Which side would you have chosen in the mage templar conflict_
  4. _What would you have done with Anders?_



First off, kudos on the name. Yes, you are the half-decent one. A bit too Orlesian for my taste, but easy, to the point, and rings well. Second...lets count. One, two, three, four questions. You need to have a serious talk with the person that taught you basic arithmetic. But, because you scored points with your name, I will indulge you.

So, on with my answers.

It mattered nothing at all who I shipped with Hawke, because she shipped everyone. And my job was- and still is- to keep Hawke happy. As long as Hawke was happy my survival chances went up vertically. And hey, I had fun. Watching her flirt with anything on two legs –skeletons excluded- was the best bit of entertainment you could have hoped for. But if I have to choose...I’d probably say Isabela. Because of mental images.

Yes. Mental images. _Nice_.

If I could change any single event, I’d like to go back to the day my father decided to boink his wife –sorry mother- and force him to pull back. And there you have it- no more Bartrand. A dwarf can dream.

As for the mage-templar conflict, I started out sympathetic towards the mages. By the end of this sorry tale, though, I’d had it up to here with templars, mages, the chantry and all the participants in this sordid affair. Up. To. Here. Which of course isn’t much, if you consider my height, but anyway.

As for the last question –which is a spoiler by the way- I would have done _nothing_ with Anders, because he’s not my type. And yes, I do realise that was not what you were asking, but that’s the answer you’re getting. You will just have to wait and see.

**MostHopelessofRomantics**

_Dear Varric,  
Your chest hair is amazing! How do you care for it? Do you fluff it with a comb? Does it get regular trims for its health and growth? Do you use conditioner?_

_Love, MHR (a most ardent admirer)_

I will not scold you on your name, because you seem to be a person of good taste in every other way. Please do not adventure under that, though. No one will want to know about the antics of MostHopefulRomantics. Take it from me.

Now, to get to the point, yes, I am well aware, my chest hair is awesome. Stop drooling. I don’t need to fluff it with a comb, there are scores of females willing to comb their fingers through it- it rarely ever tangles. No conditioner too. I will admit I tried that once, but it lost some of its curl. And I am probably over sharing here, but I do not trim it either because handfuls are yanked out on regular occasions, and I’ll let you imagine the circumstances. *winks*

**GeneralOkazawa**

_What's your opinion on crazy, evil brothers?_

Exotic sounding name, I’ll give you that, but...no. Off the mark, as well. I dare you to try calling out to the leader of your group “GeneralOkawaza, watch out!”. By the time you’ve said it, GeneralOkawhatsyourname, the leader would be like “What, who, where?” –dead.

Your question though...what my opinion is on crazy evil brothers...it will be answered in full down the line, but I can say this: every family has a member that the rest of the relatives roll their eyes at. It can be the odious, grasping uncle type (like Hawke’s uncle Gamlen), the nagging, guilt-tripping mother type (like Hawke’s mother), the needs-to-be-a-corpse-and-pronto husband type (like Isabela’s late hubby). You name it. Fenris’ lying, betraying sister type. Anders’ hand-you-over-to-the-templars-but-oh-here’s-a-pillow parents type. Merrills’ disapproving, judgmental surrogate mother type. Any combination of the above.

Or you can have the crazy, evil brother type.

Now, if you have been so cursed by the Maker, I have to words for you: first, you have my sympathy. And second, watch your ass.

Because the natural evolution of the crazy, evil brother subspecies is to turn into a _backstabbing_ , crazy, evil brother. So beware. That’s all I have to say. Watch your ass, and make sure you don’t turn into the other brother subspecies: the naïve, double-crossed brother. Those two go hand in hand, you know.

And those are all the answers, people, to all your questions. Let’s do this again...I’m free on the last day of the week that has no Sundays.

 


	17. FAQ answers, old chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the FAQ chapter that I had originally posted on FF. net. Some of Varric's answers are too good to go to waste, according to his nagging opinion, so here it is. Thankfully, the questions were included. I have included the original author's note, because that chapter had been posted after an extensive absense ( I think it was Christmas) and Varric's opening comments make no sense without it.

**Varric has been absent. I have no idea where he was, in what seedy little tavern, all I know is that he took one look at all the Christmas preparations and scrammed. He said something about that Santa guy looking awfully suspicious, with all these elves about, and just left me.**

**He’s back now, and talking up a storm. The blasted dwarf didn’t even say he was sorry for the extended absence, he said that he was supposed to make the ‘fans’ sweat it out. And I think he is getting a bit too cocky.**

**Insolent dwarf.**

* * *

 

Ah, my adoring public. I know you’ve missed me, no need to lie. Please disregard the offensive comments of that person doing the tap-tap-tap on that thingamajig while I speak. As my pal Broody would have said, she is of no consequence.

So. After giving you advice on how to form your own perfect group of idiots -pardon, _adventurers_ \- and since all the member in our own little dysfunctional group of nitwits have been introduced, it’s time for me to tell you about out adventures.

We had many.

That’s all for now.

What? I have questions to answer first, have you forgotten?

Ah, nug shit, I knew I was going to regret this...Le SIGH.

Oh, and before I get started, I know I told you all that a leader or a group of adventurers needs to have an impressive name, but really, this is ridiculous. The only one normal among you is that Letticiae person.

The rest of you can go to the corner.

**Okay, The Original Frizzi.**

_Does Hawke's being a magpie attract some treasures? Or are we essentially going to find nothing but torn trousers and moth-eaten scarves in every random crate?_

 Excuse me very much, but trousers and moth eaten scarves in every random crate are useful. Give them a good wash (I always insisted on a thorough boiling, mind you) and presto! Bandages. Bah, do I have to tell you everything? What I failed to understand were the woven bracelets and the frayed ropes. But I guess there is a market for those, because Hawke managed to sell them. The weirdest thing we ever found... Truncheon Wax. Don’t even ask. But to answer your question, Original Frizzi, no. She didn’t. Just shiny and glowy men.

Okay, sorry, excuse me for a week, but I have to ask? Is there a Fake Frizzi somewhere out there?

**MB18932**

_Alright, what question should I ask...*lightbulb* Does Merrill get replacement balls of twine?_

Sure! I got her at least another ball every week. Soon they run out of the standard, colourless variety and they started selling me coloured twine, and that when things got interesting, because she used a different colour for the Hanged Man, another one for the Lowtown Market, and so forth. But then she forgot which was which. That was Merrill for you. Funny thing was, take her out in the wilderness and she could tell you the exact moment of the exact day of the exact month that we had passed by _that_ particular stump of _that_ tree, and how many pebbles were on the left of it. But put her in the city and that was it. She could get lost walking in a circle.

Oh, by the way, I’d love to see a bard trying to compose an epic ballad about MB18932’s adventures... Go to the corner with the Frizzi.

**Enchanter T.I.M.**

_Dear Varric say if you read a story where the leader is a woman and a mage, but is also ugly, most definitely not fair skinned and still gets the job done following this Italian motto "Sprezzatura". (best you look it up) Would you still read it, or only read it if the creator prettied up the main character?_

First off, I don’t need to look it up, dear. I live by the word. Second, I told you, the main character must be at least passably pretty. But I am a dwarf and there is nothing prettier in our eyes than someone who ‘gets the job done’. We are practical people by nature. So no, don’t pretty the character up. Hawke had a mole. There, I’ve said it.

You may be excused from the corner. Just barely, mind you.  

**Shadowsilv3r**

  1. _Has Isabela ever touched your chest hair?_
  2. _Does ANYBODY besides you and Bianca know the truth about the origin of her name?_
  3. _If the answer to the above question is yes, then who is he/she? where do they live? and what is their favorite drink?_
  4. _Is your answer to the above question even true?_
  5. _Have you ever read Anders manifesto?_
  6. _What is the age difference between you and Bartrand?_
  7. _Who is the oldest member of Hawke's group?_
  8. _Who is the youngest?_
  9. _Why did you never come up with a nickname for Aveline?_
  10. _Why am I asking so many questions?_
  11. _Do baby Dwarves really come from pink and grey rock?_
  12. _What does Merrill's vallaslin markings mean?_
  13. _Do you have a thing for Edwina?_
  14. _if yes, is Bianca jealous of her?_
  15. _Why is Fenris' hair white?_
  16. _Can I say that this was a good chapter as always?_



What part of ask me A question did you not understand? A question. A. As in one. Single. Uno. Ein.

Ah, nug shit, I am waaay past regretting this...

  1. Yes. Much more than my chest hair, but rest easy, I am hairy there too.
  2. Yes. A friend in a remote village in the Anderfells, called Biowareville. I won’t say anything else about him.
  3. Mum’s the word.
  4. Erm...yes?
  5. Oh, please. Honestly. Have you ever seen Anders’ manifesto? Do you know why he wrote and rewrote the damned thing all the time? He claimed it was because he was trying to improve it, but let me tell you, that is the biggest pile of shit, ever. He simply couldn’t read his own handwriting, that’s the reason. No one could.
  6. Eh...Hawke? Duh...She was the first to join so she _was_ the oldest member of the group, you know, and yes, I do realise that was not what you were asking but this is the answer you are getting. Period.
  7. Hehe. Sebastian.
  8. She scares me. I am not ashamed to admit it.
  9. I was just thinking the very same thing. WHY, MAKER, WHY?
  10. Hmph. Nonsense. Okay, females have little pebbles and males have little stones, and when males get their rocks off...
  11. I know her name means Shining Sea in one of the old languages but the writing on her face...hah. Funny. I never asked.
  12. 12)   Eh, no. There are rumours Edwina used to be a man called Edwin. A mage too. Read a scroll or something and got turned into a woman...I doubt it’s true, but I kept my distance anyway. Just to be sure.
  13. Bianca is jealous of every woman that passes close enough to ruffle my chest hair. That’s just the way she is...
  14. He says it’s because of the Lyrium. I say he’s just weird. And he’s so dark and gloomy, something had to be light about him.
  15. It was, so yes, you may.



Corner. Now. Uh-uh! Not a word from you.

  **NoMadKa**

_Author, may I proclaim my undying love to you again?_

Certainly. I am awesome this way, after all. It was the chest hair, wasn’t it?

**EcoCentric**

_Have you ever been into any girl (Hawke doesn't count) dwarf, human or elf you know or anyone that is not an inanimate object (no offense Bianca)?_

What do you mean, been into any girl? The...carnal way or simply like them? If you are talking about...being into any girl, you know, like really BEING into a girl, I have to make one thing certain, and this is the last time I say that, Bianca is made of WOOD. I’ll pause while you ponder the repercussions of wood, and splinters, in sensitive areas. If you are talking about me liking a female, like REALLY liking a girl, in love level, then the answer is...perhaps.

As for your name...Le sigh. Corner. Off you go.

**Letticiae**

_This Hawke will never go three years (from act 1 to 2) without getting busy with someone, will she?_

I would say the answer is a resounding NO. Pftt..Hawke couldn’t go a week without...AHEM. I’ll just shut up now...

Ah, finally. A half decent name. Bravo.

  **BlizzardDragon**

_If you could choose a partner for Hawke who would it be? What was your favorite thing about hanging around Hawke? Have you even done a prank war?_

Someone with massive amounts of patience, a deadly sense of humour, stamina, more stamina, and yes, stamina. Cause the guy would need it. As for my favourite thing about hanging around Hawke, it was that the survival chances increased. She was good at what she did. Plus, she was funny, clever, and had a killer ass. Really, what more can you ask for? Now, regarding your last question, for me to get into a prank war, there would have to be someone stupid enough to become my opponent....Nah, I don’t think so.

 And, no, I can see you trying to scurry away. Go to the corner with the other ones.

 **Kainen-no-Kitsune**.

_So anyways, oh so wonderful paragon of manly chest hair, what is your recommended ladder of quests for the burgeoning adventurer, and what do you do if you get quests that are important, but you don't think you can take on? (Because we all know there's not a leveling system or order of events or anything, right?_

I LIKE you! So I won't send you to the corner although your name...I hope you won't adventure under it. Please don’t.

Now, The recommended ladder of quests is to do the easy ones first. Obviously. But say you get an important quest, one that you absolutely have to complete, but you don’t think you can take it on...what then? You stock up on potions and magical doodad’s and off you go, armed to the teeth and clanging like a kitchen rack walking. Once there, where say the dragon lurks, or the incredibly tough mercenaries are hiding, or the Blood mages are doing their little nude-blood-soaked frolicking, you examine the situation and come up with a strategy. And no, yelling “GET THEM ALL!” and charging in is NEVER a good strategy. Contrary to the popular belief of inexperienced adventurers, you can’t very well pause the damned battle to think of what you are going to do next, can you? So you must think things through; who will be left at the back to heal, or go range weapon on their ass? Who will protect your snipers and mages? Who will take who? Will you send the warriors against the mages, or the rogues?

If nothing else works, cheat. Shamelessly. How, you might ask me... Anyway you can, I answer you.

Now, if you are the kind of people that do not cheat under pain of death, once the battle begins there is no pausing it, as I said. That does not mean you have to stay there and fucking DIE, should the enemy proves too much. No. No, no, no. Contrary to another popular belief, if you die, you die. You won't miraculously get up after the battle with a smart comment, “let’s not do that, again, okay?” No. You die, that’s it. Bye-bye, adios, and may you rest in peace. We’ll bring you flowers, but you’ll probably grow some too. On you, yes. With you as fertilizer.

So what do you if the enemy proves a tiny bit too much? You run, people. You turn tail and beat a very brave retreat. You bugger off. Leave to fight another day and all that.

 

So people, that was it. I answered all you questions.

Let’s do that again, sometime. Like in never, perhaps.


	18. Interlude

Okay, Varric isn’t here right now and I have a few things to set straight.

First of all, I am NOT a jealous lady. I don’t know why you all think that. It must be Varric’s insistent effort to justify his lack of a love life but saying he is thinking of me. Lies, let me tell you that from the start.

I will not go into details, but my beloved dwarf has secrets I cannot tell you about. My lips...if I had them, are sealed.

I am a simple girl, and love attention, and I must admit, there was a time when those clever dwarven hands rubbing me down, or cradling my body used to be magic...ahhh, those were the good old days. I am still devoted to my dwarf, but lately...

Oh, that staff...he is so strong, and so tall, and...don’t get me started. The way he glows, the way he twirls around and slashes through the air...magic. He is magic. My bolts have gone astray more than once lately, and Varric, I am afraid, is beginning to notice, because he is forever trying to adjust my scope.

Dear friends, I am heartbroken, because he won't even look at me. He flirts with those twins, the daggers, and if I could cry I would. And as if that wasn’t enough, those little pointy sluts gave me the shock of my life one day, because they somehow unite into a bow. A BOW. Of course, bows are inferior weapons compared to us crossbows, but the design and the mechanism...Varric was enthralled, and my little heart was green with jealousy. But what really broke my heart, my friends, was the way _he_ looked at them. Oh, if only he could one day look at me like that!

I think that was the day I realised I had fallen for that blond mage’s staff.

So Varric may not have noticed, but I have moved on. I still accept his loving attention, but my dew heart beats for another. And that blasted mage master of his is glued next to that rogue, and I can see him walking next to those twin sluts every day...it breaks my little heartstrings.

So Varric can flirt all he wants, he can even invite anyone he wants into his bed, the one I still share, and I won't mind.

Second, give it a rest with my name. It is what it is, and the story will be our secret forever. Why is everybody so keen on learning how I got my name? It is insulting. I am Bianca. Does every single person _you_ meet pester you about why and how you got your name? Why don’t you focus on other things? See how my wooden stock shines, see what a well-build, strong young lady I am! Praise my aim, my strength, my rhythm as I lay a path of devastation around me! I am Bianca! A weapon both beautiful and fierce! Stop it with the “oh, how cute, it has a name, why did you name it Bianca?”

Varric is coming back. I have to go.

Dear friends, another word of caution before I have to leave you.

That dwarf –I love him, don’t get me wrong- is so full of shit sometimes, pardon my Orlesian. Take everything he says with a grain of salt.

I do most of the hard work, anyway.

 


	19. Adventuring 101: The Way it Should Be

So, my intrepid young adventurers, you wanted to know more about Hawke’s many, many adventures. Here goes then, and make sure you keep notes, because I will be asking questions later, and woe unto you if you were paying more attention to Norah’s ass as she was passing by than me. I will fail you, and then you’d have to retake this lesson. Plus, if you don’t learn, you’ll probably end up in a dragon’s stomach. Doesn’t make any difference to me, but you probably won’t like the decor. Just saying.

No shit then, there we were, making our way to the Viscount’s Keep to see Aveline. We got to talking with Bethany on the way and I don’t know how but the discussion turned to brothers. Not my favourite subject considering what I had for a brother, but she seemed to be missing hers. She told me how he used to nail her braid to the bed, which made Hawke look back at us and offer a smile that was slightly sad and self-mocking; as if she was sad and laughing at herself for it. I offered Sunshine my condolences for her brother and then told her she could have mine if she wanted him, to which Hawke shuddered and asked “who in the Void would ever want Bartrand?”

So true, that.

Fenris and Anders were soaking the information up like sponges left in the desert. It wasn’t often we got to hear about Hawke’s past. And the glow boys were clearly interested. Hah. Understatement of the year. Their ears had perked up; okay Fenris’ were more obvious, naturally, but Anders was paying attention too. Isabela had a slightly bored look on her face, though. Hmmm. She was up to something. My awesome-dwarf sense was tingling.

“Carver, right? Annoying, eager, a chip the size of a roof tile on his shoulder?” she drawled.

The Glow Boys got right down to glowering, realising the pirate queen had gotten this information from the horse’s mouth itself. I snorted at their looks. Oh, yeah. They were both wondering what other intimate information the Rivaini had on Hawke and exactly how she had gotten it. As for me...okay the mental image wasn’t bad. Heck, not bad at all...hmmm...

Okay, okay, minds of the gutter, all of you, me included. Let’s focus. No more mental images of Isabela and Hawke, nubile, glistening bodies rolling around naked on a bed...AHEM. Stop it now. You, there, at the back. Stop that. I can see you.

As I was saying before our brief foray into the gutter, Aveline had wanted to see Hawke and they exchanged a few pleasantries, consisting mainly of Aveline warning Hawke that Bartrand was a bastard and voicing her frustration that her job wasn’t as fulfilling as she had thought..

First off, Bartrand, my dear older brother, was _not_ a bastard. Bastards all over the world stand offended at the comparison. You see, if there ever was a King of Bastards, Bartrand would be the evil villain that would usurp his throne, stomp on his grave and then go on to leave his mark on bastardly history. Probably by peeing all over it. Honestly. He had _that_ look, my dear, beloved brother Bartrand, one that sized you up as if wondering how much money you would fetch; I swear he even looked at Mother like that.

Second, Aveline would assign a guard to guard the guard if she could. I mean...come on! She was frustrated because she didn't guard enough! Because there was crime in the city she hadn’t personally stamped out. That woman...Maker have mercy, she was bad for business.

She told us about a raid on a caravan up in Sundermount (more nature, oh happy dance!) and she asked Hawke to help her, giving some warnings that she had to behave and shit, because ‘she would be acting on behalf of the guard.’

Now call me overly suspicious, but I didn't see a lot of money in that little jaunt to the mountains. Just me, of course. I could be wrong, which I rarely am, and when I am, I never admit it. And when I admit it, you can’t repeat it. Those are the Varric rules; take them or leave them. As I was saying, I didn't see us making a fortune...Hawke was clever, Hawke was shrewd, she had a business acumen that rivalled mine, but when it was about helping a friend....let’s just say she would bend over and beg for it.

Hmmm...nice visual again... Hey, not my fault. The tushy on that woman was a work of art, after all. Male here, with all male parts in excellent working order, thank you very much.

But I digress once more.

 There I was then, I shit you not, as we arrived at that Sundermount site where...green things...shudder... abounded, birds chirped and squirrels chattered. Nature was doing its own ...nature-y things, but sure as daylight, the rumours of an ambush were true; there were traps all over the place, which offends me to no end, because one  wrong move and there go my boots. These are doe-skin boots, by the way, ridiculously expensive and very sensitive. Plus they are special order, form a merchant down in Tantervale, whose daughter had the prettiest, most pert pair of...okay. Long story that.

So, soon enough, voila, the first victims. Raiders. Now raiders as a foe (keep notes, kiddies) are not very dangerous unless they are en masse. I mean one raider is pftt..nothing. Two, piece of cake. Ten, ha, Bianca laughs in their face. Make them fifty though, and things get a teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy _challenging_. Good thing is, and I have no idea why, they never rush you all at once: they come in waves. It honestly beats me why. It must be a raider-y thing. They probably have it as a requirement to join, you know, that you must be a few crayons short of a full colouring set. Of course, to us, the adventurers, that is extremely convenient; we just kill one wave after the other.

One thing was certain though, those particular raiders were too well organised and a bit too well equipped, a step up from the normal doofus raider, and that was suspicious. Aveline thought so too.

A little squabble erupted there, because Anders started healing our little cuts and nicks and he made the mistake of offering his services to Fenris too. The elf growled that no _filthy_ mage was going to touch him, to which Hawke scowled and gave him a disappointed look. Bethany was near tears; I wanted to drag him by his pointed ear and kick his scrawny ass, but I guess what happened next was a better punishment:

Hawke took off her armour, pulled the collar of her shirt aside baring a creamy white shoulder, and invited Anders with a breathy, throaty, come-hither-oh-you-yummy-apostate voice to ‘kiss it and make it all better’.

Hey, which one of you was it that was keeping the score? Does that count as Anders –one?

I’d say it does.

I saw Anders drag his fingers across her skin, and I swear he sighed, and I saw his hand shake a bit. Fenris clenched his teeth so much, I’m sure he chipped a few teeth. Isabela smiled, but her smile was a little...tense. And Merrill just looked at them all with a look of confusion on her pretty face.

When Anders finished healing her –he took his sweet time about it, make no mistake- she kissed his cheek, thanked him and as he was passing by Fenris hissed that _filthy mages_ could touch _her_ all they wanted. Then she grabbed her sister’s arm and started walking with her in front of the rest of the group.

One elf, promptly put back into his place. Check.

One sister, vindicated. Check.

One apostate, nearly coming in his smalls. Check.

I kept snickering as we were returning to the city and then we made it to the Keep to collect our pay. Well we collected something, alright, but it wasn’t a reward, unless you count a bucketful of nug shit as rewarding. Captain Jeden told Aveline off, threatened to throw us into the dungeons and generally threw a hissy fit when he discovered what Aveline had done.

Take a sniff, people. Yeah, a rat. That’s what you’re smelling.

When one of the guards thanked Aveline for saving her ass, because she would have been the one to have fallen in that ambush, and mentioned a satchel and how heavy it had been that night, the aroma of rat in the air intensified. Now everyone could smell it, even Merrill.

We checked the roaster and found who was the next guard to have that satchel, Donnic, remember that name, and we rushed to save him.

A funny moment here, once we had rescued that guy, from yet another series of waves of raiders he looked at Aveline and called her a ‘beautiful sight’.  Maybe the nutrients that were supposed to be keeping his brain cells alive had all gone into those impressive sideburns of his. Aveline, a beautiful sight? What had they been slipping into the guards’ drinks?

And guess what? The rat? It was Captain Jeven himself who was apparently selling state secrets to the Carta. Now that is what I call an impressively sized rodent. But Aveline would have none of that, she took the matter directly to the Seneschal.

And that is how Aveline ended up the newest Guard Captain of Kirkwall.

What is the moral of this story? Sometimes, fate puts the right person into the right place at the right moment and sometimes it takes the completely wrong person, screws them over, sideways and backwards and lets them hanging by their balls. The first was what happened to Aveline. The rest what happened to...the criminals of this here lovely city once Aveline assumed her office.

And that Donnic person...yeah, as crazy as a sack full of ferrets. He actually married Aveline. Now, that is one hombre with cojones made of dragonbone, kiddies, I tip my hat to him. But that is a story for another time, be patient now.

And guess what?

We did get paid in the end. Woo hoo!

 


	20. Adventuring 101: Birthright

Before I go on to describe the quest Hawke called “Birthright” and I called “A Case Study in Dysfunctional Families”, I should tell you a bit about Hawke’s family.

So, Hawke had a mother.

Yeah, yeah, she didn’t grow under a cabbage leaf, of course she had a mother. Her name was Leandra, and Hawke and her had a lovely little ‘love-hate-I blame you for everything’ relationship. Don’t get me wrong, Leandra was a nice lady, the kind of mother everyone would want, except when shit happened, at which point she would probably blame everything on your head and make you feel like a heel. But ... lovingly.

Truly, you have to appreciate dwarven mothers like my own, who did it with a snarling shout and a wooden clog to the backside. At least they weren’t confusing.

Now, Hawke had an uncle, too. Gamlen Amell, the last male member of the glorious Amell bloodline. Poor bloodline... To have a man like Gamlen representing you. That’s tough. And cruel. And totally undeserving. If I were a bloodline and I had sprouted such a lovely flower as Gamlen, I’d erase myself.

Gamlen was a...how do I put that politely? Oh, yes. A weasel. A greasy, sleazy, beady-eyed weasel. He had that lovely aroma of old boiled cabbage and stale fart hovering around him, and he would literally sell his own mother for a few coppers. He had sold Hawke and Bethany, after all, into servitude for a whole year. He had that look in his eye that said he’d hump you like a greased nug if you turned the wrong way while in his vicinity. Lovely character, really... Reminded me of my brother.

When Leandra- a long time ago- had left the city in the dead of night with her apostate lover, the Amells had been among the richest, most prestigious families of the city. Leandra had been supposed to marry a snooty Orlesian noble, the invitations had been sent, the flowers ordered. Kirkwall had had a gossip fest like no other; the scandal had been enough to sustain all those wrinkled old crones with the stiff petticoats for months.

But I digress. And Bianca doesn’t like it when I digress.

So, a few decades later, and the last branch of the Amell bloodline was living in a hovel in Lowtown, poor and ridiculed. And truly, calling that place a hovel was an affront to all respectable hovels. I expect the lawsuits any day now.

How, might you ask, my intrepid young adventurers, does such a prestigious and powerful family fall so low?

Gamlen.

Need I say more? I thought not.

So, there I was, I shit you not, when one fine day Bethany, Leandra and Hawke cornered Gamlen into a wall and demanded to know what had happened to the family estate. Actually, I had slept there, and no, nothing like that, get your smut filled minds out of the gutter. We had been drinking, I had escorted her home, and we had both fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, next to Cuddles. Now, I don’t know about you, but waking up with a mouthful of mabari pelt isn’t my idea of fun, and I was a little bit grumpy that morning, especially since Gamlen then requested me to pay rent for sleeping in his house.

Colour me incredulous. Like really? Was that even a house? Shouldn’t I have been paid to sleep in that flee infested dump, instead?

One thing led to another and soon Gamlen was asking Leandra to pay rent for the glorious accommodations he was so magnanimously (Fenris would be _sooo_ proud of me right now) providing.  Hawke and I exchanged a look and next thing I know we were both being tossed out on our asses. Beats me why. Maybe because we had both guffawed so loud, and you know, the plaster from the roof started coming down. Maybe Gamlen didn't like people laughing at him. Well, he should have done something about that ugly mug of his he called a face, then.

A few minutes later, Bethany came out, gave us a scolding, and then asked Hawke if they could go retrieve their grandfather’s will from their currently slaver-infested ancestral home, so they could show it to their mother.

She also said that Gamlen had looked shifty when she had asked him why he had left the will at the estate. Like he had been lying.

“Honey,” Hawke had laughed. “Gamlen can’t say ‘good morning’ without lying twice.”

I wholeheartedly agreed.

Now, that little quest didn't look so tough, so Hawke needn’t actually gather the whole party with her. But you know, it was about slavers, so Fenris might want to tag along. And, you know, the entrance to the estate’s cellar was right next to Anders’ door, so, you know, let’s tell Anders to come along too.

Riiiight. Like that fooled anyone, Hawke.

So Anders and Fenris in tow, Bethany eagerly leading the way, we made our way up the tunnels leading to the cellar, and then yeah, you guessed it, we were in the cellar. How original. Lots of barrels and crates and sacks and racks of wine bottles.

Miles of wine bottles. And barrels. And more bottles.

Fenris was having an orgasm.

Hawke scoffed and snapped her fingers in front of the elf’s face; she received a goofy smile in return.

“Wine. Lots of wine,” he said, breathless with joy.

Hmph. So that’s what it took to reduce the elf to monosyllables. I was expecting something in the lines of ‘An astoundingly breathtaking array of alcoholic beverages.’

She laughed and patted his cheek, and promised him a night alone, the two of them, with all that wine, if she ever managed to get her ancestral home back.

Fenris had another orgasm.

Anders had a hissy fit.

“I wouldn’t trust that beast near wine,” he shot at Hawke, “who knows what he might do drunk, if he is such a little ray of sunshine when he’s sober.”

Fenris growled and moved to attack him, but then the slavers were rude enough to interrupt, damn it, just when it was becoming interesting. And slavers had no change against an angry Fenris, let me tell you.

We reached a larger room, and sure enough, someone had left a little trap there for us. Easy as pie, though. I made quick work of it, but then there was a slaver overlord there, and guess what? The guy was a mage. Anders was livid. Mages that abused their gift were even a bigger affront to him that mages who just _used_ their gift were to Fenris. It was fun watching those two work together, and trust me when they wanted to work together they could be a big, mean fighting machine. The problem is the only thing they would ever willingly work together on was...sorry. Can’t find something.

Hmmm.... Maybe...no. Nothing. Sorry.

So, once the fight was over the girls managed to get us all to the vault, and there they found granddaddy Amell’s will. Apparently, the old man had been clever enough not to let his fortune into Gamlen’s keeping, not that it mattered, however, because that little odious grabby man had appropriated it anyway. Which goes to show you what I have always said my whole life:

Brothers are an unholy pain in the...

The fact remained, though, that by law the estate belonged to Leandra and her children.

So, Leandra was going to petition the Viscount for their ancestral home back, and Bethany had stars in her eyes, dreaming of life as a noble. Hawke was much more grounded, commenting that she was not going to start visiting Madame Josephine’s Tea and Biscuit Parlour, even if the biscotti there were scrumptious.

By the way, Hawke had also found a lovely little portrait of her mother in that vault, which she gave to Bethany. That woman loved to give presents, beats me why. She got that totally giddy look in her eyes, jumped up and down like an overactive bunny and squealed. Yeah. Squealed. Screeched with delight, as if she was the one receiving the present.

Frankly, we all hated it when she did that, but she forced her presents down our throats anyway. Bleh...

She did get Bianca a fancy rune, once though, so I forgive her.

So, my young friends what is the moral of this story?

-You, the pretty one at the front seat, the one that was doodling all through today’s lecture (don’t think I didn't see you). Care to share that with the rest of the class?-

Ahem. The moral:

Brothers are not to be trusted.

Le sigh. I wish I’d known that before the Deep Shit expedition.

 


	21. Adventuring 101: Blackpowder Promise

Ah, yes. Yes, yes, yes. The Qunari. Who asked this question? You, there, at the back? Well done.

Ah, I have been meaning to tell you the little riveting tale of how we met the Arishok for ages now. Good of you to remind me.

So, no shit, there I was, one fine day when we were traipsing along the Wounded Coast, having to withstand Hawke’s lame jokes about why the Wounded Coast was named like that and if the names where all in the same line. I gave up after “I wonder if that is near the Injured Cliffs. Or near the Limping Hills. Massive Head Trauma Bay? No? Just me? Forget I said anything.” I actually reached for Bianca and trust me, the rest of the gang were very grateful for it.

She did mutter that a surgeon must have named the area and wondered if there was a Perforated Peninsula somewhere.

Ha. Ha. So funny. _Not._

So, there we were, as I was saying, and Hawke was having a rare fit of brain-farting, when suddenly we came across a group of hired bodyguards, battling some Qunari. We didn’t know at that time, but those were outlaw, rogue Qunari, the notorious Tal’Vasoth. No matter. They soon were corpses and as you might have noticed a corpse is a corpse, is a corpse, no matter what kind of fancy name it had in life.

I digress. Right in the middle of that brouhaha was a little cowering mass of dwarven excrement. Yes, that’s what I meant. A pile of dwarven shit, scared shitless.

Javaris Tintop.

Pfftt...I knew the man, excuse me, the rat, by reputation only, of course, because even I, who deal with all kinds of scum have my standards and there is a level below which I will just NOT drop. Javaris was so far under that threshold that honestly, why bother? He was like a leech; you know it’s there, it’s sucking the lifeblood out of you, you want to rip it off as soon as possible, but you don’t _talk_ to it. It’s just _not_ done.

Before I had the chance to warn Hawke we found ourselves accepting a task by that esteemed gentleman, and being promised a small fortune if we delivered.

I have always held a special fondness in my heart for Javaris. He was just such a lovely character, such a generous...ahem. Okay, okay, I’ll stop.

Gee, blame the dwarf for appreciating a well paying customer, won’t you?

Anyhow, we are off to kill the Tal’Vasoth, because apparently, Javaris had struck a deal with the Qunari: if he rid them of what they saw as an outrage in the eyes of the Qun, he would get the right to trade in _gaatlock_ , the Qunari explosive that required no lyrium, and no magic.

I did have a little bit of...apprehension about a substance like that ending up in Javaris’ hands, but that is just me, and my overly suspicious, dooms-day-scenario mind.

And let me tell you kiddies, killing those huge horned sons of a ....female dog, is a bit tricky. Just a bit, mind you, no need soiling your armour and running off to hide in the bushes if you ever see one. Just...be a little cautious, because those guys, contrary to most people you will encounter, don’t just swing a sword to and fro and go ‘arggghhh’. They can actually fight. I mean, they actually know which end of a weapon they have to stick in you. They don’t use bows or crossbows too, just those big-ass javelins, and trust me...an arrow in the butt? Piece of cake. One of those mutherfuckers...ahem...sons-involved-in-incestuous-relations-with-their-mother spears in your ass...ahem...derriere? Not a barrel of laughs.

I have been trying to clean up my language, by the way. I have been informed it is not fitting to a man in my position to be swearing like a dock worker. Blame Fenris with his “To the darkest pit of the Void with you!” and “this is the most impressively sized array of nonsensical gibberish I have ever heard”. What’s wrong with saying “Fuck off!” and “What bullshit!” I will never understand. Still I am under oath and have agreed to pay a copper for every curse word.

Shit!

Sorry...

Manure!

So, no shit, there I was....

Hey. Really? For real? I can’t say nugshit, and no shit there I was?

Screw this motherfucking bullshit, the bet is off. I lost. See if I give a fuck. See if I give a fucking fucked-up shit of a well-humped nug!

Ahhh...I feel sooo much better.

So, no shit, there I was, when we were just about to jump that group of Tal’Vasoth, when one of said horned behemoths steps right out of a bush and warns us that his kind...littered the area.

Le sigh. I will never understand Qunari. The whole ‘who is worthy to live’ and ‘live by the Qun or die’, and the honour thing....it flies right over my head. This guy had left the Qun because he didn’t agree with his role in it. And that made him Tal’Vasoth. He then left the freaking Tal’Vasoth because he could live in chaos like they did and he didn’t want to be a mindless murderer, as if the Qunari were anything but.

I’m getting a headache.

I was curious to see how my dear, dear friend Hawke would handle the Tal’Vasoth, and that sneaky rogue didn’t disappoint me, because let’s just admit it, she was spectacular. She opted to use her curved twin daggers and weaved in and out of combat like a greased eel. Fenris and she seemed to work exceptionally well together too, him cleaving bodies in twain and her slipping through his strikes to deliver crippling blows. I actually had to hold my breath a couple of times when she got too close, but those two seemed to be dancing round each other, not fighting. He seemed to already have a little corner of his brain dedicated to exactly where she was in a battlefield and she seemed to know exactly where his next blow would fall, and know exactly how to dance around him without hindering him, or ending up with that monstrous blade of his lodged between her shoulder blades.

It was poetry in motion, kiddies, I shit you not.

Isabela and she worked exceptionally well too and Anders was a force of nature at the back.

But guess who surprised the living shit out of me in this fight?

Merrill.

Little unassuming Merrill, shy, bashful, babbly Merrill could _fight_. Boy, could she fight! Those green vines that sprang under her feet, pinning bodies three times her size to the ground? AWESOME! That boulder of dirt and rock, hurtling Qunari away like matchsticks? EVEN MORE AWESOME! The girl could fight, even without using blood magic, and from the look on Hawke’s face, she was surprised too, and grateful, because Merrill managed to obliterate a Qunari that had cornered our fair leader at some point.

Cue end of battle, Merrill running to Hawke to check if she was okay and Hawke actually hugging the girl and laying a big sloppy wet kiss on her mouth right there in the open.

Result, one blushing elf, one fuming pirate, one stream of curses in Tevene, and one mage muttering that _that_ was hot and he would mind watching it.

 Oh, and yes, one sister face-palming and saying “oh, sister...”

Oh, brother, was more like it.

Yeah, I was with Anders. Pfttt...need you ask? Like, really? What warm-blooded male with functioning male doodahs would mind watching that?

Not this paragon of manliness, no Serah. Ah-ha. Makes me drool to think about it right now...just imagine, Hawke, and Merrill, nude, on a bed...ahem...eating. Yes, eating.

I will just let you enjoy the mental image for a second before I yank you all out of the gutter, by your ears if I have to.

By the way, who’s keeping the score? How much does that make us? Merrill 1? Well, not so fast, because we took a little break before going into that cave where the Tal’Vasoth were holed up in, and she smiled at Merrill, who was still sporting a huge blush, run a hand down the girl’s face and invited her to her house for _dinner_ that night. And then told her she looked good enough to eat with that blush on her face. Hence the...eating image.

And, don’t mind me, but I’d say that makes Merrill 2.

To cut a long story short, we went into those tunnels in search of the rogue Qunari and here, right here, I have to make a little pause and comment on something. Kirkwall’s geological forces are amazingly consistent. All the caves in the area look _exactly_ the same. You go hunting for Tal’Vasoth? You go looking for apostate mages? You are hunting for slavers? It makes _no_ difference. The caves are all the same to the point where you go into a fresh one and have to stop and scratch your head and go “that stalagmite looks awfully familiar.” Or is it stalactite? I never could tell them apart. So, either caves around Kirkwall have a way of cloning themselves, or the miners that carved those tunnels were totally devoid of imagination, as Broody would have said.

Or the Maker was in a hurry when he was designing caves, I don’t know...

Anyway, we got rid of the Tal’Vasoth and made our way slowly back to the city, in anticipation of our hefty payment.

And yes. Once again, something interfered with that. Weird things seemed to happen when we were about to get paid. I did notice that. Either someone would try to screw us over, which by the way, was a poor health-plan choice, or we would end up feeling sorry for the poor sod that had hired us, or we would get paid in chickens and magical thingmagings. Here, Serah, I have no money, but take this ring. Here, Messere, I have absolutely no cash, not two coppers to rub together, but take this necklace. Here, take this bracelet. Take this goose, it’s my favourite, her name is Temperance.

Do I look like a fucking jeweller? Or a gooseherd? Sheeez.

So we go to the Qunari camp, meet up with Javaris, and lo and behold the Arishok gets summoned.

Observation numero uno: BIG. That guy was big. Like, humongous. Built like a brick house and with horns a mile long, how in the Void did he ever manage to keep his head up with those things up there, I haven’t the foggiest. How did he wash his hair without snagging the towel? How many pillows did he gore a month?

Observation numero duo: BIG. For your information, and just so that you are never caught unawares like I was, Qunari wear no underclothes. Nope. Nothing. Nada. He was up on a high platform and only a little piece of cloth was hanging between his knees. And he sat with his legs apart.

MIND BLEACH.

Observation numero tre: The Arishok was...how to put it politely...what would Broody have said...Ah, I got it. He emanated a distinct air of aggravation and antipathy.  In other words, kiddies, he hated all our guts and everything in this city sickened him.

And as it turned out, our loquacious elf could speak Qunari too. He sprouted some Qun something, arishokosh anadish qun mumbo jumbo and impressed the heck out of the Arishok. Plus me. Plus Hawke. He earned a smile from Hawke and an “I have a growing lack of disgust for you,” comment from that behemoth.

So, what was it that interfered with our payment this time, I hear you asking? The fact that that fool Javaris had imagined a task where there had been none. There was no way on the Maker’s green Thedas that the Qunari were ever going to let someone like him get their explosive powder in their hands, which of course made me appreciate the fact that at least the Qunari were not complete idiots. We had so many of those in this town already. We didn’t need imports.

“We have wrongfully inserted ourselves into your affairs then,” Fenris said. “Shall we kill the dwarf for you?”

Hehehe. Oh, poor Javaris. I still remember the way he blanched at that. Hahaha. Whiter than a milkmaid’s bottom he was, oh, the poor odious little man!

But then the Arishok said that if we had faced Tal’Vasoth he wasn’t worthy of dying to us...huh?

I won’t even go there, because it makes my head hurt. Nah. I refuse to try and fathom how a Qunari brain works, so let’s just skip it. Javaris buggered off muttering about horn-headed oxmen and sodding it all to the Void, and we were left to chat up the Arishok. Hawke mentioned that we had been promised a reward-how I loved her at that moment!- and the Arishok covered that for us...I loved that oxman too!

Ah, the cling, ding, chink of coins in my pouch. Nothing sounds better.

I don’t know if Hawke was genuinely interested in the Qun and why the Qunari were in Kirkwall, or it was because of observation numero duo that we spend a few more minutes asking the Arishok about this and that, but judging by her comment as we were leaving, observation numero duo didn't go...unobserved by her.

“Maker,” she said as we were leaving. “Fenris, he has a bigger sword than yours.”

“But can he wield it as well?” the elf arched an eyebrow, and trust me, that was one of the few times Hawke was left without something to say.

Haha. Good one, Broody, good one.

Unfortunately, though, as you all might have heard, that wasn’t the last we saw of either the Arishok or his huge sword, and I mean the weapon, for the sake of the Stone, get your minds off that gutter!

There will be a test next time, kiddies. I hope you have been keeping notes, and not doodling.

Unless of course one of you has doodled that Hawke/Merrill scene...

Extra credits for that.


	22. Adventuring 101: Wayward Son

So. Magic, heh? What was the Maker thinking, right? Not that the matter was one I ever had to personally be wary of, you know, because dwarves have no magic and are notoriously resistant to it.

A blessing, right?

Not so fast, kiddies.

So. Let us just imagine for one second that you have, by sheer damn luck, found your other half and soon you are standing in front of a pack of hungry jackals masquerading as your relatives and the Maker and exchanging your vows and all that, and hoping that the food at the reception will be enough and that nobody will die from food poisoning.. Soon after, you start churning out little noise and poo makers. Well done, cheerio, and all that, but you didn’t do anything remarkably difficult, so stop strutting. Years later, one or more of your little bundles of joy has grown up and one day a boy pulls on her pigtails or a girl laughs at his zits and whoosh...she or he sets the barn on fire. With just a wave of their hands.

Okay, you facepalm. Hard. What next? Sure, sure, you put out the barn fire, yes. What then, though? What do you do when the templars come for your little darling? Do you hand the fruit of your loins over to the big scary tin men, or do you whistle and pretend nothing happened?

What will it be?

Do you:

  1.        Hide the kid and only let him twinkle his fingers when you need him to pull a rabbit out of a hat for the stew that night,
  2.       Call the friendly neighbourhood templars for tea and scones and hand deliver the kid, tied up with a red ribbon on top,
  3.        Grab the kid and run like your ass is on fire as was the aforementioned barn?



What will it be, people?

Personally, if any kid of mine showed magic, first I’d be very surprised –like fucking astonished, really- then I’d sick Bianca on anyone who tried to take them away from me. But no danger of that ever happening, because A. I have a certain healthy aversion against those little noisemakers, and B. I am a dwarf, and therefore not a single magic bone exists on my body for them to inherit.

Hmph. I hate kids, but I’d love any of mine to distraction.

I digress. It is becoming a bad habit of mine, but what the heck, bad habits are the salt of life, I always say. And oops, here I go again, digressing like my ass is on fire.

To get us back from that grey land where my mind keeps wandering, let me tell you something else about magic:

It sucks.

That’s it.

What? Yeah, I know, mages can be useful. Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s SO convenient to have a mage tag along. For the healing, if nothing else. I won’t even touch on the whole electricity-trick thing –it’s not my cup of tea anyway. No serah. The healing is nice, and so are those neat little tricks; the firebolts, the ice, the huge dirt balls. But, and this is a big but- like Isabela’s butt- for other people, not me! When I say that dwarves are resistant to magic, I don’t mean the bad magic only, the one that makes booboos, kiddies. Picture this: we are fighting some bandits or skeletons, or those huge-assed spiders. Nicks and cuts and blood all around, the battle finishes, the healer over there twinkles his fingers and everybody is healed, spit spot, not a scar on them. Right?

No. Wrong. Because -repeat after me- dwarves are resistant to magic.

The bandages I went through alone...the healing potions...the freaking scars. I shudder to remember them. All the thread that was left over from Merrill’s balls of twine went into sewing me up, which was not funny, don’t laugh, because even Broody got the benefit of a good mage.

Irony, what a nasty bitch.

This quest was all about magic, my friends, that’s what brought this rant about. As a final word, I will say that when the Maker made magic, he was not in his right mind. Stoned or drunk, I’d wager. He wanted a good laugh, so he said “hey, let’s make some random people able to singe the balls off the rest. That’d be funny! Oh, oh, I know! Let them shoot lightning out of their fingertips too!”

Oh, har, har, har, Maker. So not funny.

But then again, he made mosquitoes and cockroaches too, not to mention spiders. His mind works in mysterious ways - when it does.

And speaking of which...spiders. What the fuck ..???

And skeletons? Why skeletons, Maker? Wasn’t that a bit of an overkill? I mean, you battle mages, bam, skeletons. You battle darkspawn, bam, skeletons. You go for a swim on the Wounded Coast, yes, you guessed it, BAM, skeletons. I seriously fear that skeletons might spring up at Madam Josephine’s too, and sit down to have a cup of tea and a few scones. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

Just once, _once_ , I would like to go into a cave and not have those huge-arsed creepy spiders drop from the ceiling, or skeletons come to life and start shooting fucking arrows at me. JUST ONCE! Snakes! Snakes would be a good alternative. Or killer rabbits. Anything but spiders and skeletons, all conveniently equipped with bows and arrows and swords.

By the way, what is it with that? Is it a weird Kirkwall custom to bury people with bows and arrows? Bleh.

And don’t get me started on shades and demons. Oh, ho, ho, ho... Don’t. Get. Me. Started.

Ahem. Yes, Bianca, dear, I know. I am wandering from the main topic like Isabela’s hands under the table.

So, no shit, there I was, tagging along with Hawke on a routine visit to the Alienage to check up if my favourite elf needed new twine, when we see a Dalish elf talking to a big scary templar. Unashamedly as always, we eavesdrop like a pair of fishwives and hear something about a boy who had magic and whose mother had taken option B. But the kid had bolted and was now running loose around the city; the templar looked the nice sort, like he wanted to help, although I did resent his choice of personal grooming; he had a beard. A goatee. Bleh, cunt ticklers, I always call them.

Ahem...hm, hm. Yes, Bianca dear, I will try not to be so crude. Good thing the elf withdrew that stupid-ass bet.

“It is as infeasible to impede your vulgarities as it is to dissuade a cat from meowing,” that’s what he said.

LE long-suffering SIGH. I think he’s doing it on purpose, to drive me up a wall.

To get back on track, that elf, Arriani, told us more about her son Feynriel, a half-elven teenager, who instead of seeing boobs and having wet dreams, like normal teenagers, and waking up with a stiffy, was plagued by dreams and nightmares of demons. I don’t know about you, but that just screams abomination at me.

And, pardon me for a week now, but I can’t help but go off at a tangent a bit more here:

Abominations...

Facepalm.

 So. You are a demon. You spend your time in the Fade, happily fading along, trying to lure unsuspecting visitors so they might let you in. You haunt the places where the Veil is as gossamer thin as Isabela’s knickers, in case any blood mage happens to come by and tells you to tag along. It is all you live for, all you crave, to see the waking world through the eyes of a mortal, to walk the mortal realm.

SO WHY IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT’S HOLY DO YOU FUCKING TURN THEM INSIDE OUT?

Wouldn’t it be SO much easier if you just hid in them, coexisted, so that nobody would know you were there? Answer me oh, mighty demon. What’s with the butt ugly abominations? Why ruin a perfectly good host? Are you daft?

Seriously faulty game design, oh Maker.

Hey. I just realised the last part perfectly describes Blondie. Hmph. Spirits are much more clever than demons then.

What? Oh, yes, Bianca, okay, I’ll get back to the quest, sheez.

So Arriani tells us about her boy and Bethany says “Can’t we help this woman? This could be mother!”

I guess it touched a chord in Hawke because she agreed; intrepid heroes to the mageling’s rescue it was, then.

Oh, Fenris was just delirious with joy. He scowled so much Hawke had to smile extra sweetly at him, and bat those eyelashes until I nearly got a cold from the draft.

Anyway, Arriani sent us to the lad’s father, an Antivan merchant by the name of Vincento, who played coy for a while, until Bethany demonstrated why he really didn't have anything to fear from us. We also had to go speak to Thrask, the templar with the cun...sorry. The goatee.

On the way to the Gallows, Bethany and Aveline started talking about children and why Aveline and her now dead husband, Wesley, had never had any of their own.

Brrrr...shudder. Aveline with children. Poor little mites.

The subject got turned to babies, and Anders asked Hawke if she wanted any.

“Why, are you volunteering?” she smiled.

Anders just smiled and winked, and damn him when he wasn’t yammering on about mages and their freedom, he was a good looking lad; I guess it was that BAMF apostate thing.

“Say the word, Hawke. Grey Wardens usually can’t have children, but no harm in trying, right?”

“Baby abominations... How irresistibly adorable!” Fenris sneered.

“Hmph! Any babies you had would have to be muzzled not to bite their own mother’s tit, you twit,” Anders sneered right back.

Hawke rolled her eyes.  I snickered. Bethany looked at Anders with a look that was both fascinated and piqued. Aveline swore under her breath. Isabela cringed. Merrill clapped her hands and blabbered that a baby would be lovely, wouldn’t it?

“Oh please,” Hawke muttered. “Babies are... A loud noise at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other. Who needs that?”

And that was the end of that.

We arrived at the Gallows, and shit, I know my people are good with stone and building things, but...shit, man. That place was...shit. And those statues...huge bronze statues of slaves hiding their heads in their hands around the courtyard...I guess there was a statement to be made there, and the statement was, you guessed it; “Oh, Shit.”

Thrask was just standing there, in the middle of the yard. Templars were like that: their biggest talent was just standing still and looking around. It took a special brand of man to be able to do that; the extra boring, pretentious sort. They call it ‘being vigilant’. I call it as it is: being pompous assholes.

Cue side note again: skirts? I mean a steel chest plate and a skirt? Why? Why skirts? To look manlier? Because the fabric is SO arrow resistant? And those pots they wear on their heads...I bet there is an ex-chamber pot manufacturer that now supplies templars almost exclusively. I’d just like to know who it was that designed the templar armour, and never take him along when I go shopping.

Bleh, once more.

Thrask tried to dismiss us, saying that Feynriel was Templar business, but Hawke just used Aveline, who got into a little pissing match with the templar, about whose responsibility it was to protect the city. Ah, that woman and responsibility...I bet you five sovereign that her perfume was called L’Eau d’Itsmyjob.

In the end, Thrask gave us the name and location of an ex-templar that often smuggled mages out of the city, Samson or something. Off we go again then, trekking over the city. It was like this a lot. I hope one day someone invents a thingamajig that you can get in and whoosh, be at the other side of town in minutes. I’d paragon his ass in a heartbeat.

Samson was a gem of a man, let me tell you. Burned out husk of a templar, who would probably sell his left testicle for a sniff of lyrium dust. And since money was tight, Hawke made Fenris light up his markings and the odious little lyrium-head nearly came in his smalls.

“Glow for me, Fen,” she’d just whispered in that come-hither voice of hers and he had rolled his eyes and voila! Light show.

Got to hand to him, Broody had his uses.

So, no shit, we learn that Feynriel had been referred to a captain that did a little slaving on the side, along with a girl mage, and they were being held in a quay warehouse in the Docks.

Cue more walking.

The docks...ah. Fenris nearly gagged at the smell of fish. You want to make the elf turn green instead of blue? Try a nice fat fish. Hehe. Worked like a charm every time. As for me, I really dislike that part of town, because I get rudely reminded of all the shipping manifests that are just sitting there on my desk; I keep ignoring them in hopes they will one day up and walk away, but so far, nothing.

How insufferably uncouth, as Fenris would say.

And talking of rude, we also got jumped, by a group of Sharps Highwaymen, a subspecies of the Raiderus Doofidus. Only thing is they drop down from the rooftops, to the point where Anders and I started contemplating if there was a bird or something that dropped them...Hmph. Bird dropping raiders, oh, I slay me.

So, no shit, there I was when we stormed that warehouse, killed everything in sight and made our way upstairs to find a girl mage being backed into a corner by some sailors...and ...well, cue abomination. Oh, those things are just so lovely. They give me the warm fuzzies every time I see them. Not to mention they are usually accompanied by our beloved skeletons. Ahhh...Ugliness, like misery, loves company.

And guess what? The girl was Thrask’s daughter. Oh, naughty templar, having an apostate daughter. I guess Thrask chose option A. And of course, Anders couldn’t help but comment that it was a different tune the templars sang when it was _their_ children they had to lock up.

Not even Fenris could find something to say to that.

Isabela just commended that Thrask looked to be an alright sort of man, and that that goatee definitely had potential.

I told you, cunt tickl...

Remind me not to take Bianca along next time. She’s cramping my style.

There was a shipping manifest that included a mage lad to a slaver named Di...Da..I forget. Anyway. Slaver was all most of us had to hear. And off we go again, clipity clop, galloping to the other side of town.  My poor feet. So, we find that slaver (Maker, the hat on that man was the most hideous thing I have ever seen) and he makes the mistake of mistaking us for cargo. Seriously? And he didn't seem very eager to talk, too. Major health risk, that.

“Fenris, _darling_ , if you please?” Hawke just motioned to him, “Make him talk.”

“I can do that,” he said, fierce glee lighting up his eyes.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I would talk my ass off if someone shoved his fist in my chest and gave my heart a little tender squeeze. Just me, of course. Others might disagree, but I don’t think they’d live to boast about it. Just saying.

Le sigh. I will never understand women, but virtually all the girls in the party –I can swear it on my mother’s beard- were creaming their smalls at the sight of Fenris lighting up and shoving his fist...Oh... OH! I GOT IT!

Ewww. Pass me the mind bleach.

So what next? Two silvers to whomever guesses it...Yes, you, the cute-as-a-button sexy little redhead at the front row. The one that’s been doodling while I speak. Don’t think I didn't see you. Awww, she blushed. Come on, tell us.

Ah, right you are. More walking. Extra credit for you...but my eyes are up here, darling.

And where to? To the Wounded Coast this time. Sigh. Nature was beginning to grow on me. Like a tumour.

 To cut a long story short, we enter the cave, and start hacking our way through a smelly bunch of losers. I just called them 'enemies' and footnoted it later. But suddenly, a man appears on a platform above us, and he has the lad with him, and a knife on said lad’s neck.

Ah, there I shined, my friends, by the sheer awesomeness of my bullshit. I managed to convince that numbskull that the boy was the Viscount’s bastard son, and he let the boy go. I am just breath-taking that way. Me and my chest hair.

And then...broohaha. What to do with the lad. Anders wanted to let him walk free. Merrill suggested sending him to the Dalish. Fenris wanted to lock him up in the Circle. Aveline wanted us to surrender him to Thrask. Bethany wanted us to take him home to his mama. And Isabela and Hawke wanted to jump the little jail bait. Hey, he was cute. But a kid.

Come on, Hawke, he’s just a baby! You’re robbing the cradle here!

As for me, I just wanted him gone, because he had cost me three blisters and a scratch on Bianca. Oh, my poor Bianca. I’m so sorry, baby.

We ended up sending him to the Dalish. Anders was happy. “Keeper keeps him, trains him, nobody gets hurt,” he said, pleased as a cat with a bowl of cream.

Fenris was...his usual mage-hating self. “Yes, because no Dalish mage has ever gone astray,” he sneered.

And Hawke was like, “Look me up when you’re older. I’ll... _train_ you, too.”

Yes, yes, she wasn’t talking about his magic abilities. Even he got that. We went back to Arriani, told her the news and got paid...with a Dalish ring. Meh. I’ve said it before, but I will say it again. Barter economy sucks.

As a side note, that wasn’t the last we saw of that half-elven lad. No Serah.

Morale of the story?

No good deed goes unpunished.

And the test question I promised, kiddies: Write me an essay, and tell me who you think Hawke ended up with, based on the current score.

Varric out. Class dismissed.

You, the pretty redhead...meet me in my...ahem...office. You need to be...punished. Yes. Punished. Ahem.

Your punishment will be to pet my chest hair and polish my staff...stuff. I meant stuff.

What are the rest of you still doing here?

Go. Shoo. Varric is...busy.


	23. Adventuring 101: Enemies among us

Ah...le sigh.

Yes. As if Anders, and Fenris and that shiny priest guy weren’t enough...now we also had templars. The girls in romantic pursue of my pal Hawke were getting seriously outnumbered, although, to be honest, Isabela could count for three normal girls. But, seriously now, templars?

Enter Knight-Captain Hottie, everybody say hi.

But, as always, I am running ahead of myself.

I can’t even remember what we were doing at the Chantry that day. Maybe Hawke had gone to watch Sebastian pray. He could get down on his knees and pray for hours, that man. And he did take confessions; Hawke even slipped in there once and confessed to being a bad, _bad_ girl. You should have seen his blush afterwards. Hehe.

Anyway, no shit there I was; maybe we were delivering another pommel, or a scarf, or the remains of some spider-eaten sister. Who cares, I don’t remember.

We go out, and we see this girl, and lo and behold, another quest. “Have you seen my brother?”

Honestly, good people of Kirkwall, why don’t you look behind the sofa cushions before you start asking people in the street? I mean, look, _really_ look. Use your hands too, not just your eyes, as my mother (shudder) always used to say. It’s probably right in front of your nose, whatever it is you’re looking for, playing peek-a-boo. Bah, like I always used to say, Kirkwallers couldn’t find their ass with two hands, a torch and a written set of instructions. And a friend assisting them.

Hawke of course instantly picked the quest up, which was a mystery to me. Trust me, if I lost my brother, the last thing I’d ever do would be to look for him. I’d probably throw a party, but anyway. Not all brothers are like Bartrand, thank the Maker. Some are nothing more than a mild nuisance. I have heard rumours that some siblings even get along (le gasp!) but that for me is just as incredulous as that Flemeth bullshit Hawke had tried to sell me.

So this girl, Macha, tells us that her brother, Keran, a templar recruit, has gone missing.

Again. Le sigh. How do you misplace a guy with a skirt and a chamber pot over his head?

On second thought, I’d rather be looking for a pommel.

So off we go to the Gallows to ask his friends about him. I sincerely thought the boy was probably just playing hooky for a day, but the girl had been frantic, telling us about dark rumours of the Knight Commander and that there had been templars disappearing.

Oh, nice. Because there is nothing more reassuring than the people tasked with keeping you safe going a bit apeshit crazy .

So we find a few recruits there, and what do you know, at first they didn't want to talk to us. At least the girl, saying something about orders and yada yada yada. One seductive smile from Hawke to the pretty boy among them (she avoided the one with the handlebar moustache, good for her) and information started flowing. It appeared that many recruits had disappeared and the rest had been ordered not to breathe a word. But breathe it they did, assisted by one of Hawke’s sultry, come-hither smiles, and we found out that one of the missing recruits, Wilmod, had just returned, then went out of the city to ‘clear his head’. And a Knight-Captain Whatshisname had gone after him.

That just screamed trouble. No, wait. It didn't just scream trouble. It climbed up a very high, high wall and bellowed it out for all to hear. But Hawke and trouble had a very twisted relationship; it followed her, and she loved it.

To cut a long story short, we hurry after them and come across the improbable sight of a templar beating the other templar like a one-legged step child. The guy, whom we assumed was Knight-Captain Cullen, had the younger guy, whom we assumed was Wilmod –the cries of ‘Mercy Ser! Mercy!” were a dead giveaway- at sword point.

But appearances, damn them to the Void and back, are sometimes misleading. Just as Hawke was ready to go all righteous and argh and protect the downtrodden and all, we get thrown a curve ball.

Even Bianca was caught by surprise.

You wouldn’t expect the bad guy to go ‘BAWHAHAHAHA! I WILL NOW KILL YOU!’ because you know, that’s so terribly cliché, but he did. Bad guys always seem so very lacking in the imagination department, I haven’t the foggiest idea why. Then again, what do you expect from a man with the name Wilmod? Eternal glory?

So, that Wilmod character turns into a demon and summons some abominations and presto! We had a fight on our hands.

Excuse me while I digress a bit here. First off, I thought only mages could get possessed. Second, aren’t abominations supposed to be possessed mages? Last time I checked, you couldn’t whip some from out of your ass, could you? So how did Wilmod summon three of them? Did they possess the freaking air? Because, you know, unless there was actually something for demons to slip into and go BAWHAHAHA, you are not supposed to be able to fart and produce abominations, are you?

Of course, now that I think of it, if you ever happened to be in a small room with Bartrand after eating beans...the farting out abominations part doesn’t sound so hard to believe.

What does that mean? Either the Chantry has been lying to us...or the Chantry has been lying to us.

Broody would have called it ‘artfully misconstruing the truth.’

I call it bullshit.

So, no shit, there I was, when we finally managed to defeat all the shades and abominations and Wilmod himself. That fight was no walk in the park, let me tell you, especially since it was just me, Anders and Fenris with her that day. An abomination managed to corner me at some point, and boy, do these things smell bad on close quarters! The stench will never leave me, I swear.

And then the templar whips off his helmet and Hawke goes yum.

I facepalmed, I really did.

Cullen had a voice as soft as whipped cream, caramel brown eyes, and strawberry blond curly hair.

And Hawke just wanted to gobble him all up. Her eyes lit up and she gave the man a smile that cats usually give to canaries.

Apparently, recruits had been disappearing for a while and since Wilmod (you know, I just can’t get over how damned _wrong_ that name was) was the first one to return, Knight Captain Hottie, sorry, Cullen, had decided to corner him and intimidate him into providing some answers.

And boy, did he get some butt ugly ones, now, didn't he?

So, blissfully ignorant that Hawke was thinking “Can I please have some of that yummy man to go, gravy on the side?”, he told her that all the recruits that had disappeared had recently been frequenting the Blooming Rose, but the ‘ladies’ there didn't answer his questions because they were afraid of getting into deep shit for servicing templar recruits.

Bull, if you ask me. By the way the poor guy was blushing, I doubted he had even passed outside of the brothel. His whole air screamed VIRGIN; it couldn’t have been more obvious if there had been a sign plastered on his forehead, saying “I’ve never gotten any. I don’t even know if it’s vertical or horizontal.”

And before we go on, let me correct some of your misconceptions: no, templars are not practically _required_ to be chaste. They can even get married, so long as their spouse is independently wealthy; not that it is encouraged of course. In fact it is rather frowned upon. Some of them _choose_ to remain chaste after they take their vows ( _why_ they chose that is beyond me), and I assumed that Captain Hottie was part of the latter.

Oh, I will spare you my amusement at watching Hawke ogle yet another chaste man. Did she have a come-all-ye-unattainable magnet somewhere, alone with the come-all-ye-weirdoes one, I wonder? Not that she minded, of course, she liked a little bit of challenge. The bets were already flying on how long it would take her to break the Choir Boy.

“I’d never thought I’d say this,” she said later, “but I would love to get under that man’s skirt.”

The image was so wrong, on so many different levels.

As an aside here, as far as Captain Hottie is concerned, it proved out I was wrong to assume; a rather raunchy incident concerning Hawke, a sturdy table and a pair of handcuffs totally proved me wrong –or erroneous, as Fenris would say. But that is a story for another time.

So, off we went to the Blooming Rose. Fenris and Anders started bickering on the way, the whole Wilmod the Abomination conundrum had sparked quite a heated little discussion on the danger of mages, the right of mages and blah, blah, blah yada, yada, yada, yapity, yapity, yap. For once Hawke let them hack it out for a while, until insults started flying.,,

Fenris: “Everybody is entitled to their opinion, it’s just that yours is exceedingly idiotic.”

Anders: “Well, I will defend, to your death, the right to my opinion.”

Fenris: “Haha. You know, there is a village somewhere you are cruelly depriving of an idiot.”

Anders: “Elf, you should do some soul searching. You just mind find one.”

Fenris: “Mage, I've come across rotting bodies that are less offensive than you are.”

Anders: “You are clearly confusing me with someone who gives a fuck.”

Need I say more? No, need I?

I didn't think so.

Hawke put a stop to it, coming between them and winding one arm into one of each of them, and purring: “You know, boys, this pissing match can be resolved so much better in close quarters...like in my bed. What do you say?”

Now, I might be wrong, which of course I rarely am, but they did protest and act indignant and shit, but they didn't really object _that_ much to the idea of a night between the three of them, if you get my drift. Oh, they made the right noises, “I would rather sleep with a gentlok than come within two feet of that elf,” and “Venhedis! I’d rather castrate myself that touch anything his vile touch has polluted”... But Hawke was walking funny next morning and that’s all I will say. I might be wrong. There might have been a pebble in her boot. I can’t swear by anything you know, but...hmmm...the insults did get less for a while.

No, no, definitely a pebble in her boot. Ahem. Yes. That was it.

No, no, get your minds off the gutter, I am sure she had a pebble in her boot. And yes, those scratches must have been from.... a kitten. Yes. That’s it. A kitten. End of story.

And there we were at the Blooming Rose, the finest brothel in the Free Marches. Madame Lusine ran that place for Harlan, a lovely character that I once met- and that was one time too many. So, she ran the place for Harlan. Or with him. Or on him. It's a Coterie thing, really, don’t ask.

Now you would expect Hawke to go and find someone of station in the establishment to ask about information but no need. The cries of “Hey, Hawke! Long time no see!” were almost universal.

“How long is that?” I asked her, and she counted on her fingers and then said “Six hours.”

Yep, Hawke. A maiden as pure as untrodden snow. Pfttt.

Idunna the Exotic Wonder from the East. We had the name of the ‘lady’ that had been servicing the recruits and of we go, climbing up the stairs, Hawke greeting people left and right. Fenris remarked that she seemed to be well acquainted with the place and she sighed and gave him a pouting look. “A girl has to relieve some tension. What am I do when the men in my life blatantly ignore me? Or pray all day? Or brood all day? Or,” she snuck a look at Anders, “pontificate about mages all day?”

Well. She did have a point.

What did the two fools answer?

“I do not brood.”

“I do not pontificate.”

Bull, and that was _so_ besides the point, you blooming idiots.

Anyway, Idunna the Exotic Wonder from the East proved to be so much more exotic that her title professed. I don’t know what happened -I really don’t- but one minute we had been asking her about the templars and the next...I remember looking into her eyes and falling in love. That’s all. Next thing I know, Anders is flashing blue and Hawke is recovering from a blade she herself had almost drawn against her own throat. Fenris shook his head as if to clear it and grasped the girl by the neck and tossed her against the wall, seething.

“Blood Magic!!” he spat. “Hawke, shall I kill her?”

Ah, there lies the rub.

The one big problem that Hawke faced was what to do when magic was involved. I mean, raiders, slavers, thugs, those were easy, everyone hated those. No one begrudged her killing a few. But mages and everything that had to do with magic...that was a thorny one.

Not that there was any ridiculous system where Hawke gathered or lost approval points or anything- although we did that for fun for a while- but pouts and grumbles and temper tantrums were as common as nug shit in nug pen. Let mages go, and Aveline and Fenris threw a hissy fit. Turn them in to the templars and Bethany, Anders and Merrill skulked and pouted and had that ‘you kicked my puppy’ look all day. Me and Isabela didn't really care –deny Isabela sex and you were done for, though. Me? I got pissed when she did charity cases.

In short, there was no way to please everyone. You would have to be extremely diplomatic to do that, and Hawke...well she wouldn’t know subtlety if it subtly came up to her and gave her a not-so-subtle bite on her supple behind.

So when that mage spat all the information that we needed the big question arose: what to do with her? Kill her, turn her in to the templars, or set her loose?

Usually, so as not to offend anyone’s sensibilities, Hawke tossed a coin. Or went eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

You may laugh if you please, but take a moment to admire how stupid the fates can be. No, think about it... Amazing, isn’t it? No, the decisions that shook the world were not a result of morals, or in-depth thought, or convictions. Most of the events that changed the face of Thedas were decided with eenie minie miny moe.

Let us just ponder that for a minute.

That time, by the way, moe fell on ‘kill her’ and Fenris had the pleasure of adding a heart to his collection. Anders pouted, but hey, it wasn’t Hawke’s fault. The might of the moe had spoken.

What you don’t believe me? You think Hawke was this big badass hero that went out to right all wrongs and wage epic battle against all injustice? Oh, please. She was a girl after my own heart: she loved a good ale, a good fuck and despised fools. And didn’t want to trouble her pretty little head too much, where was the fun in that? So the Might Of the Moe, MOM for short, got to play a very important role in our decision making process.

Blame it on MOM. Poor Leandra.

Anyway, we follow the instructions that Idunna had given us, and we end up in Darktown, which is still one of my very least favourite parts of town. Because, you know, it’s still dark and still one of the rankiest pits in Thedas, it never changes.

So, to cut a long story short, we enter those tunnels that were spawned by the most unimaginative architect in all of history and yes, yes, you’ve guessed it. More shades, more skeletons, more abominations. Apparently people eat a lot of beans down there, haha. At least there were no spiders, thank the Maker for little miracles.

In the end, we reach this place where a man is suspended in mid air in a vortex of raw power or something, and a woman approaches us, and, honestly, for the life of me...that lipstick? Did someone tell her it suited her? I mean, what the big ugly fuck? Was it white? Was it blue? Was it one of those girly named colours, like lavender?

Who gives a flying fuck, it was U-G-L-Y.

And the craziness in her eyes, oh, boy. If crazy people gave out awards, she’d get the trophy, the cake and the Championship. Get this...she had hatched a plan to infest the templar ranks with demon-possessed recruits. But the boy, Keran, had proven not to be a suitable candidate for possession –which just meant the boy had the good grace to say no to the demons, good for him- and she was feeding off his energy.

For once MOM needn’t be used, and we needed no reason to kill her; she was crazy and she was ugly. Crazy on its own, I can take. Ugly on its own, I can tolerate. But together? I already have Bartrand, thanks a bunch.

So we kill the ugly bitch, and then set Keran free and...

Facepalm moment again.

Hawke actually licked her lips this time, she really did. The poor boy had the misfortune of being half naked, which for Hawke was a step in the right direction...and the misfortune of being quite passable. And no handlebar moustache too, although he did have the tiniest of little cunt ticklers....ah, goatees under his lip. Bleh, facial hair. I will never understand the purpose of it.

 Ah, poor kid. He begged us to let him go back to the templars and Fenris asked “But is it Keran...or Keran plus one?”

Anders stepped forward, glowed a little blue, spouted some mumbo jumbo, and said that the lad was okay. Demon free. Hooray.

But Hawke insisted she give him a more thorough examination.

You should have seen how the poor kid scampered to get out of there, not even taking the time to put on a shirt.

Poor Hawke. She hadn’t been to the Blooming rose in more than six hours, and now this! If she had a dick, I’d say she was left with it in her hand, but anyway. You get the picture.

I dragged them all back to the Gallows where we got paid handsomely by the Knight Captain. When he heard about that Tarohne character –the ugly one- and what she had been trying to do, Keran’s future with the templars seemed a bit uncertain, and he shot Hawke a pleading look. She assured Cullen the lad was safe and I do think that meant he owed her.

How she would collect that dept I leave to your fertile imagination.

And then....just when everything was peachy, and the quest was over, and the money was jingling in my purse...Cullen goes and ruins everything by starting a discussion about magic, and the Circle saying something in the lines of “mages cannot be treated like people.”

Oh, boy.

Cullen, have you met my friend Justice? Carry on with that train of thought, and you will.

But Hawke may not have been subtle, or diplomatic, but she knew men; and she was smart. She shot Cullen one of her looks that could make rocks melt, those feline eyes of her twinkling, and told him that mages were people like her and him, and there were ways to get along...there were ways for us all to get along...wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

He said he would...look into it.

Did he?

MOM’s the word.

No, no, kiddies, do not pressure me. I will reveal no more of Hawke’s secrets tonight.

So what is the moral of this story?

Yes, you got it.

Men are so easily manipulated.

(oh, and never wear weird make-up, it could save your life).


	24. Adventuring 101:The Bone Pit

Now, you would think that two people as shrewd and awesome as Hawke and yours truly would know well enough to steer clear of a place called...dum, dum, dum....the BONE PIT. Yes. But we needed the money, damn it, and that loathsome merchant with the droopy eyes, Hubert, was paying good money for someone to go and ‘inspect’ the place, which in layman’s terms could be described as ‘go kill shit’.

We’d met Hubert at his stall in Hightown, and he had gone on a twelve minute rant about his worthless Feleldan workers, and how he was never hiring those useless mongrels again, and that he should have known better than to put his trust and his precious investment in the hands of those thrice damned drunken, dog humping refugees.

Hawke let him talk, pardon, dig his grave, and then she casually informed him she was Fereldan too, while casually, very casually mind you, polishing her wicked looking dagger.

I chuckled. Poor little obnoxious weasel.

So, no shit, there I was, along with Anders, Fenris, Isabela and Merrill, when we went to check out the Bone Pit, which by the way, is out there in that black spot on the map I call ‘outdoors’. Le sigh. Nature. Why, Maker?

First thing that goes swimmingly once we set our foot there, is Broody going on a melodramatic extravaganza. “This place is cursed,” he said, “it reeks of desperation and death, and all those that set foot here are doomed.”

Well. That set the mood off pretty nicely.

Then we come across some looters who were happily looting away at the place, which seemed abandoned; saw them, killed them, forgot about them. Then looted the place ourselves. Hehehe.

Then Broody goes on another drama queen display. “There’s a foul wind blowing from this cave. I smell death.”

Hawke gave him a pointed look and told him he’d be smelling her boot imbedded deep into his ass any fucking minute now, if he didn’t stop with the gloom and doom.

So, no shit, we step into the cave and what drops down to greet us? No, not spiders. Dragonlings. Baby dragons. Woohoo. My week was complete.

And, mind you, if I ever hear anyone saying that all baby animals are cute, I’m personally dragging him to a dragon infested cave and let him see firsthand how adorable and cuddly baby dragons are.

Of course, the biggest problem with baby dragons isn’t that they hatch with more teeth than a dentist will see in a lifetime. Nor that they see us all as nice, drool-worthy chunks of meat. Not even that they tend to go for the ankles.

No. The biggest problem with baby dragons is that somewhere in the neighbourhood there’s bound to be a mama dragon.

And that my friends, is one fine kettle of fish you have suddenly found yourself in.

So, lest I be accused of digressing once again, on with my story.

We went from cavern to cavern, killing off the dragonlings, and damn but those things were sneaky, had teeth like sharp daggers and smelt like shit. Two of them snuck up on me while I was manning the rear and the rear was where they got me. Talk about ouch, ouch, ouchie. Anders tried his best, but the whole dwarf-therefore-resistant-to-magic thing meant I got to sit on a donut shaped pillow for a few days.

Not fun. I was not amused. Not in the least.

And to top it all, it wasn’t the kind of injury for which you could proudly display the scars without Aveline throwing you in the dungeons for indecent exposure. Did get Hawke to rub healing salves on it, though, so I guess it was worth it.

That girl has a mighty good touch, if you get my drift.

No, Bianca, baby, don’t fret, nothing happened. That was not why I had a cloth thrown over you.

Digressing like my ass is on fire –which it was – again.

So, we take a turn and a man runs up to us, thanking Andraste and the Maker and his lucky stars we had gotten there to save him from becoming dragon fodder. One of the miners, no doubt. Hawke started asking him what had happened, where the dragons had come from and the poor sod explained that they had brought a wall down to expand a tunnel, and presto! scaly dinner guests. And the miners were on the menu. She sent the man out, telling him to take care not to get eaten –you needn’t have told him twice – and he warned us there was a huge dragon in the direction we had been heading.

The mama, more likely.

Now, I did have a bone to pick with the man later, because he told us the dragon was huge...it wasn’t. It was humongous. He could have told us, “Hey, don’t go that way. There is a scary huge-assed mountain of a beast waiting to make a meal out of you.” Had he been a tad more descriptive, we might have thought about it twice.

But, acting on completely erroneous information – _huge dragon my half eaten ass!_ \- we stepped through an opening into the rocks, out on a ledge and...let me tell you, boys and girls, mama was pissed. And not just huge. She was colossal. Breathed out fire and shit, stomped her foot and the ground trembled.

Bianca doesn’t scare easy, my friends, but this time she was scared shitless.

It was a good thing we had Fenris with us. I wonder what that damned elf _is_ afraid of, if that mammoth of an angry mama didn’t faze him. Probably not finding the right word to express himself...pfft.

Anyway, it was long and dodgy fight. Isabela and Fenris fought in close quarters, Anders and Merrill cast at the back and me and Hawke rained arrows and bolts on the damned thing.

A golden rule here, people: never trust anything that bleeds for hours and doesn’t die.

At the end, Merrill was knocked out flat, I was certain that my ass wouldn’t be the only thing to get acquainted with a dragon’s tender jaws, and Anders had heard the phrase “Heal, stupid mage, heal!” more times than he could probably remember. Isabela had lost a dagger and good thing she could hide in that smoke cloud of hers, because I am convinced that, otherwise, she wouldn’t be around to flash us with her amble behind the next day.

But finally, _finally_ , the damned thing falls dead and lo and behold, we had slain a dragon.

Now there are a few shining moments in an adventurer’s career, my friends: your first bar brawl; your first dungeon, complete with skeletons. The first abomination. The first time you come across an ambush. The first drunken binge after a job well done.

And, of course, the first time you manage not to get eaten by a dragon. If at first you didn’t succeed...well. Bye-bye. We will remember you fondly. Make sure you carry ketchup with you, because adventurers without condiments are so dull for the poor beasts.

A funny aside here, but Hawke had also accepted a quest from one of the herbalists at the Gallows, a mage by the name of Solivitus, to get him rare spell reagents. And one of them was a dragon fang. I hadn’t though much of it at the moment...but, fuck, the man was actually hoping we would run into one of those mean chewing machines.

Well. Thanks. So kind of you. Remind me to send you looking for a medusa’s hair.

Oh, and I almost forgot. The fight with mama dearest ends, and does Hawke pay any attention to my stinging tushie, or to Isabela’s almost half eaten arm, or to Fenris’ scrapes and gashes? No. She runs straight to Merrill, and jerks the poor thing up in her arms and nearly starts crying over her, because, I shit you not, we had all thought the elf was a goner.

And when Merrill finally recovers, Hawke ruffles her hair, kisses her smack on the mouth, and tells her “baby, you scared me.”

I was so confused... So confused.

To cut a long story short, once we got back to Hightown and to Hubert, he offered Hawke a fifty-fifty partnership in the mines; at first it sounded suspicious, but I guess there was merit in the idea that if she was co-owner, she would make sure no more dragons showed up to gobble up the miners. It was a win-win offer; Hubert didn’t have to invest in safety, and Hawke got a nice little investment.

And she _did_ demand to be paid up front.

Maker, how I loved that woman!

Off we went to Lowtown then, to convince the rest of the workers to go back to the mines because it was now safe.

As it turned out of course, it was nothing but, because dragons, apparently, are like skeletons: they crop out everywhere, and repeatedly. Poor sods. We didn’t really know, and we didn’t really care that much, anyway.

The poor guy _did_ ask... “what if something worse comes along...like bigger dragons?”

Hmph. The guy shouldn’t have been a miner, with a hereditary gift for foretelling like that. He should have set up a booth and read fortunes.

Hawke offered them a raise –double the money Hubert was paying- because that was sure to cause that noxious little man a stroke, and she’d had just about enough of his snide remarks about Fereldans.

That was not the last we would see of that accursed place, no serah, and guess what? Yeah...bigger dragons.

The moral of this story?

Let sleeping dragons lie.

No. Really. Let them. You’ll thank me later.

 

 


	25. Adventuring 101: The Unbidden Rescue

So, intrepid future adventurers...children. They’re nature’s way of telling you “up yours, my friend, haha. You didn’t see that coming.”

Wouldn't you agree?

Sure, sure, there are parents out there that can boast and strut about their children’s accomplishments, I have no doubt. They are rarer than hens’ teeth, but they are out there. Most parents, though, I’m certain you’ll agree, tend to facepalm when they hear the latest stunt their spawn has pulled. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a lowly dockhand, a noble, or...the Viscount of Kirkwall.

Cue our next mission... That one was a barrel of fun, let me tell you.

We first came across the job by a poster in the Hightown square requesting help to ‘free’ the Viscount’s son, Saemus, from the Qunari. Yeah, yeah, observe the quotes. There’s a reason for them.

The problem was that we weren’t the only ones that could read in Kirkwall...surprising I know. But at least the fact that the poster was actually written and not doodled meant that the Viscount didn’t want the riffraff dealing with his little domestic problem.

But riffraff were attracted anyhow. We arrive at the Viscount’s office, to see a rough looking woman hacking it out with the Seneschal, Seneschal Bran. A small pause here- that man...A consummate politician, I’d heard him being called. Well, what do you call one hundred politicians at the bottom of the sea?

A very good start.

He was arrogant, he was condescending, he was obnoxious, and he had a goatee - small, but it was there. And that flaming red hair...don’t get me started. I never trust men with red hair. Women yes, women redheads are hot, Aveline excluded. They do have a temper, of course, but hey, that can be hot as well. It might be true that the fastest way to start an argument with a gingerhead is to just say something, _anything_ , but hey, beat me up with a stick, I like gingers. But red-haired men? The hotness factor goes out the window, and you get stuck with just the irritation.

The seneschal explained that Saemus, the Viscount’s son, had been taken by a Qunari....and this is where the shit hole deepened. Taken by a Qunari, or taken _with_ a Qunari? Seneschal Bran admitted –reluctantly mind you- that the boy was a ‘Qunari sympathiser’ when Hawke drilled him about why they hadn’t asked the Arishok to surrender the boy back to his father.

Ah, politics...you just have to love it. If the Viscount admitted that his son was a Qunari sympathiser, he risked being labelled soft, and indecisive against a serious threat. Which he was, between me and you, the man had the backbone of a jellyfish, but you don’t go calling the elephant in the room what it is –not when you are in politics. You call it a pachyderm of unusual size in possession of an elongated olfactory appendage, for example, but never an elephant.

Sheez, do I have to teach you everything?

If the Viscount sent the guard to retrieve his boy, he admitted that the Qunari were a legitimate threat. And since he wanted to do nothing of the sort, he walked the tightrope between considering them a threat and not feeling threatened by them. An impressive juggling act. The only one I’ve seen that was better was that man who was balancing a stack of plates on a stick shoved up his ass. It looked to be more painful than that, too, but hey, you never know. Lots of people, lots of vices.

Talking of things up one’s ass...the kid was frolicking around with a Qunari...the next Viscount to take the seat wouldn’t probably be able to actually sit on it.

And yes, if you want to know, Hawke did flirt with the Seneschal as well, batting her long eyelashes at him and smiling that come-hither smile of hers, but it flew right over that idiot’s head. Of course, there were those rumours going around about him and Serendipity, and I guess where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be fire.

Who is Serendipity? A lady with a little extra baggage, and that’s all I will say.

Well, apparently, that woman belonged to a mercenary group called the Winters, and they weren’t the ‘lets-be-diplomatic-and-try-to-avoid-bloodshed’ kind of mercenaries. More like the ‘kill-first-ask-questions-later’ kind. And Seneschal Bran was as unhappy as a dog in a flea circus that they had taken up the job. They had managed to track the Viscount’s errant progeny to the Wounded Coast, along with his Qunari buddy, for lack of a better word, and they were planning to show there en masse, just to take out one hornhead.

But at least we didn't have to trot all over town trying to pick up a lead. One the other hand, the Winters were not about to shake our hands, give us Saemus and discuss the weather over tea and fruit tarts.

So, no shit, there I was, when we reached the Wounded Coast and we found that Winters bitch, Ginnis I think her name was, the Viscount’s kid and one very stiff Qunari.

Stiff as in dead, get your minds out of the gutter, and stop snickering, children.

Saemus was on his knees, and calling that woman something-I-didn't-catch bitch. _Vashedan_? I have no idea what it meant. It was in Qunlat. Fenris probably knew, but he didn't care to enlighten me. How very rude.

So, that soft-spoken (ha!) Winters bitch starts dropping innuendoes we had all thought about and Saemus got a little pissed; he asked us to save him from his saviours. Not that we needed an excuse, of course, and not that Ginnis wasn’t rearing for a fight.

Le sigh. Mercenaries. A step above the Raiderus Duffidus, but basically the same species. The only difference is that they think they are in the military, and have all these fancy titles like Commander, and Lieutenant, and Sergeant. Oh, and yes, they pillage first and _then_ they burn everything, something that the simple raider hasn’t quite caught up to yet. And never will. Still, basically, mercenaries are just raiders which come together every day and do drills and shit. And they address their leaders with ‘Ser’ not ‘Oi, you there’ or “pssst!”. They still come in waves, while they could have easily overpowered you if they all jumped you together and they still wear those butt ugly face masks. I don’t know why. They are made of cloth, it’s not like they keep arrows away.

 So, we escorted Saemus back, a little angry, a little sad, and more than a little green with the sight of all that blood and all those dead bodies. Poor lily-livered spoilt brat. Hawke did ask him about the Qunari – Ashaad. Well, he seemed to know a lot about them and envied the certainty in their lives and how they treated anyone according to merit and not station. I’m sure there were some childhood traumas and some deep-routed psychological conflicts going on inside the kid’s head, but I couldn’t be bothered to actually deal with them, and neither could Hawke.  She told him that if he wanted certainty and a purpose, she could find him a hovel in Darktown to live in for a few weeks. He’d be certain life sucked like a Lowtown whore in no time and purposefully stay in his cosy suite at the Keep, thanking the Maker for small mercies, like not contributing a pint of blood to the bed bugs every night.

Yeah, Hawke had no patience with whiny rich kids. And he was probably the only half-decent looking guy she didn't flirt with, because, as she said, “ewww...Qunari cooties.” I amiably reminded her about the way she had drooled after the Arishok visit and she said that she couldn’t help it, she liked...big swords.

And she winked at Fenris.

 Isabela and she started on a conversation that made the poor Viscounts’ boy’s ears blush.

“Yes, don’t you just love it when a man has a big, long sword?” Isabela purred.

“And a good grip to hold it with,” Hawke winked. “But I judge a man’s skill by many things: how he swings it, his thrusts, how he sheathes it in its scabbard.”

“Oh, and how he polishes it.”

“Yes, polishing is important.”

“Do you like broadswords or longswords better?”

“Greatswords; you need two hands just to grip the hilt.”

It went on and on, until every single man in the group was sweating and adjusting the fit of their smallclothes. Saemus turned to Anders. “Are they always like this?”

“Yes,” Merrill answered him, completely missing the point of the whole conversation. “But sometimes they talk about daggers too. And candles. Apparently the longer and thicker a candle the more useless it is, because they say that candles like that are used only in the dark but then they get upset if someone lights them...I don’t understand why, but...”

 I admit it, I started bawling with laughter. Hawke and Isabela, you had to love them when their minds rolled around in the gutter like nugs in the mud.

Anyway, we reached the Keep and Seneschal Bran ushered us in, where the Viscount rushed in to meet his boy...now, call me a liar, but there was some tension in the air between father and son. The kid was upset his ‘friend’ was dead, accused his father of overreacting when he knew he had left on his own free will and the father actually said that he’d rather Saemus had been taken by force, than have people “suspect Qunari influence in his own house.”

And then Hawke had to open her big, fat, tactless mouth and say “You are both being hard-headed. Pig-headed, even.”

Bran had a fit, and ushered us out, apologising to the Viscount for the intrusion on a private moment. I don’t get it. He was standing there along with us. Wasn’t _he_ intruding? What was he doing there? Imitating a hat stand? Pfttt...hypocrite.

He paid us and expressed his fondest wish never to see us again...Hawke’s eyes were twinkling when she said she was sure he would. For the next week, she stopped by every day, just to annoy him. She didn't poke him or anything, but it was a close thing.

That should teach you, when it comes to pests like Hawke, even your supercilious politician’s tongue won’t save you. She lived to irritate people whose self-importance was three times bigger than their shoe size. She still does.

It wasn’t the last time we saw Saemus, and later Hawke said that she and Isabela should have taken the boy for a ride; maybe that wouldn’t have given him purpose, but it sure would have cleared some of the cobwebs from his head. He might have lived longer, then.

And the moral of this story? What have we learned today? Yes, kids are a pain in the posterior, and long thick candles have...other uses.

Oh, and stay away from politics. Seriously. Unless you know nothing and think you know everything, because that just screams future politician.

Oh, and we did learn some things about big swords, didn't we?

Stop giggling, kiddies.


	26. Adventuring 101: Shepherding Wolves

 

Ah, boys and girls...thorny subjects, you just have to love ‘em. And a thornier subject than religion never did exist, if you want this here dwarf’s opinion.

So... first off, I don’t know what it is with religions in Thedas, but the names are, at best, unimaginative. The Maker. The Old Gods. The Creators. Okay. We get it. Yeah, they created everything and all, and good for them, but the design does sport some serious faults. I won’t get into that. But why the _bleh_ names?

If I created a whole pantheon of gods, I’d give them impressive names, mark my words. Maker, Creator, Architect, Game Designer – all these don’t mean squat to me. We KNOW he created everything, so you might as well call him Asphodilus and be done with it.

And for that matter, how come you’re so certain it’s a he and not a she? Oh, right. Yes. The faulty design. A female divine entity would probably have done a better job...yes. And there’d definitely be no cockroaches and giant spiders- no way a woman would create something so vile.

Now, the Tevinters...they had names that rocked. Take “Dumas,” for example. Or whatshisname that came back during the recent blight. Hmmm...maybe this is the reason for the ultra simple names: so you won’t forget them.

So, no shit, in the beginning there was zilch, and then random  god X made everything, and voila! We had a world, and critters, and people, and mosquitoes, which I really don’t understand the purpose of. You may call random X “deity” or “deities” as you very much please, it makes no difference. You want to believe the Maker made everything? Fine by me. You want to believe the Creators created everything? No sweat. You want to believe the Stone belched forth the dwarves? You must be stoned, stop smoking weird herbs. But, whatever.

I get the need to believe in a greater, omnipotent power or powers. I really do. After all, when shit hits, there must be something that you cry out, like “Oh, Makerrrr!” like Sebastian, or “Creators!” like Merrill, or “Andraste’s knickerweasels!” like Anders. Or “Bollocks!” like Hawke. Haha...quite the irreverent little atheist, my Hawke.

And now that I remember...me and Hawke and Isabela once staged a little contest amongst  ourselves about who  could come up with the most blasphemous exclamation to the divine ...I think ‘Maker’s sweaty bollocks’, ‘Maker’s buggered a-hole’ and ‘Andraste’s  nipple hair’ were among our best. What _really_ incensed Sebastian, though, was coming up with sexual positions that the Maker and Andraste could be using, and calling them names like ‘Lighting her Incense’, ‘Maker’s breadth’ and ‘Praying on Your Knees’. He went off in huff muttering about blasphemers and heretics. Yeah. Because even though the Maker had a bride, he never humped her. Chaste marriage and all.  Oh, yes, and Andraste was as pure as the un-trodden snow. She and her barbarian husband only got together to pray. Riiiight.

Back to our subject- and I will it say again- I get that need to have an X divine entity or entities, because you need to be able to put blame for all the shit happening to you on someone. Right? I mean, you can’t look up to the sky and wail “Why, oh unfortunate circumstances, why?”

I get all that. What I don’t, and never _will_ get, is how much conviction and faith some people put in those deities, to the point that nothing else matters. In other words, people, fanaticism. I can’t abide fanatics.  I mean, yes, getting fanatic about, let’s say, your favourite horse at the race track. Or your king. Or the champion you bet all your money on at the grand melee. _I get that_. You’ve seen those. You can have faith in them- but an unseen, unknown, totally absent, and let’s face it, _imaginary_ entity? Why? Why do that to yourself?

And that brings us to our quest. We had the bad luck of falling into the snake pit of religion this time, kiddies. No, no, not just the snake pit. The shit pit of the snakes in the snake pit. And we had the distinct joy of meeting one of the most  piously devout bitches you have ever met, Sister Petrice.

Now that I think of it, I apologise to bitches everywhere. That was unfair. Take the Queen of Bitches, and she’s an angel compared to that... _thing_.

Sister Petrice, to put it mildly, was a woman that my mother could have used to intimidate me, people. I’d have even grown a beard if my mother had been wise –and sober- enough to use her as a scare tactic.

So, no shit, people there I was, along with almost the entire entourage when one fine night we stumbled across a woman in chantry robes offering passers-by a lot of money if they could provide some service to the Chantry. A group of highly respectable cutthroats took her up on  her offer, and asked her to step into an alley so they could...discuss the terms of the contract.

Merrill exclaimed, “She really can’t be that foolish, can she? Well, yes, of course she can...but really?”

Now if naive little Merrill realised the situation was heading straight into the shit pile, imagine how thick  the rest of us thought that woman was! Bethany and her little bleeding heart demanded we help her, while me and Hawke and Isabela scoffed and made snide remarks about what too much abstinence does to your thinking capacity. I believe the characteristics attributed to that chantry sister were mad, stupid, daft-and  that’s putting it kindly. Oh, and Fenris  commented that she had 'chosen poorly’.

Lo and behold, though, appearances can be deceiving and so can chantry sisters. Apparently, the damsel in distress wasn’t as distressed as we had originally thought, nor was she as harebrained. After we killed off those poor sods –who apparently died for nothing, not that it made any difference to them, dead is dead- a templar stepped  out of the shadows, looking all intimidating and shit. Or trying very hard and failing, we weren't _that_ impressed.

Dear Sister Petrice had thought of this little ruse: lure people just like us in- deadly, eager to help, and looking for coin. Now, the fact that a chantry sister had waved the lives of some poor, innocent cutthroats away as if she were squashing a fly should have alerted us to the depths of the deviousness and depravity of the shithole that she had for a soul, but nahhhh...We were so full of ourselves back then. We thought _nobody_ could pull one on us, least of all a sweet chantry sister.

Yeah, right.

If there was anyone or _anything_ that could up one on us,  it was the Chantry. There was no beating the Chantry in the bullshit department. They had ages of experience, and they weren’t afraid to beat you over the head with it. Even I won’t try to out-bullshit them, and that’s saying a lot.

So, she asked us to meet her at an abandoned hut in Lowtown, and when we got there, she just turned around...and what do you think that woman whipped out of her ass?

A Qunari _saarebas_.

Now, I am generally loathe to take sides when it comes to all thorny subjects, but I will make an admission here...Yeah, the mages are treated rather shabbily in Thedas. Yes, the whole lock-mages-up thing is rather unfair. Yes, yes, I admit it. But compare the treatment of circle mages in the hands of the templars to that of _saarebas_ in the hands of the Qunari, and you have to admit that the delicate circle mages have it wayyyy too easy.

I dare any of you to contradict me.

Qunari mages are collared like a horse to a plow, their eyes are hidden behind a mask –for lack of a better description- and their lips are sewn closed. Yes. You heard me. With a big, nasty needle, no doubt. Yes, yes. You aren’t hearing things, kiddies. Sewn. Shut. In cross-stitch.  Their lips, yes. Oh, and somebody at some point bends them over a block and takes a big saw to their horns. No, I shit you not.

So there we were, looking up that great hulk of a collared, lip-sewn hulk of a kossith, “oh-shits,” and “oh-Makers” and “oh-boys” going around. Sister Petrice explained that she had undertaken a burden of charity and needed someone to guide the...thing...out of the city, and that she had called the...thing...Ketojan, “a bridge between worlds.”

But we were all too busy going oh-shit, and oh-boy and Maker-why to actually notice the little gleam of maliciousness in her eye and those thin, hatred-tightened lips of hers... Nasty bitch, that Sister Petrice. My apologies to bitches everywhere, once again.

Hawke –of course- was the first one to recover, and she did the only logical thing...she asked that big lumbering oaf of a creature if he really wanted to be led out of the city. But, in retrospect, it wasn’t one of her brightest moments, as the man’s lips were – I repeat once more- sewn shut. All she got for her trouble was a growl.

Like, “urghhhhh,” but rumbling on for about a full five minutes.

“Such impeccable manners,” as Isabela put it.

I did wonder for a second how exactly it was that Sister Petrice had surmised he wanted to be led out of the city, since none of us really understood if that was a yes-urghhhh or a no-urgghhhhh. But I didn't comment. All I said was that there wasn’t any great fire for freedom in his eyes. Not that I could see them, of course.

To cut a long story short, we accepted the quest because Hawke had just spent quite a bit of money buying potions and armour upgrades, and our Deep Roads funds had been seriously depleted. But, hey! I got new inner pockets for my coat, and Fenris got a new resin or something that made his armour more durable. So, I won’t lament the loss of good money. But that meant we couldn’t be picky about our quests, although both Hawke and I could smell a rat the size of a bronto.

Anyway. As I said, we were a little too trusting –and arrogant- back then.

Aaaand...off we went, down a secret door that led to the Undercity and from there on to some smuggler’s tunnels, and- oh, what joy- once again my boots got dirty. All that muck, dust, and sewage. Ewww. And there were spiders, those enormous hairy arachnids of nightmares, and traps too. Bleh. I am so suing the city for this. They should seriously get some exterminators down there. Enough is enough.

A group of thugs at some point decided to jump us. Their leader who sported a handlebar moustache –and don’t get me started on facial hair again- made some threats and called Ketojan Hawke’s pet, and protested the fact that Fereldens were infesting the ‘last free place in all of Kirkwall’. Honestly, my friends, I took one good look around, and I don’t know.. free or not, he was welcome to it.

But then, he tried to attack Hawke, and there was this flash, and a blast of energy, and Ketojan flung them all back in an impressive –I have to admit it- display of magic. We blinked- once again, I might add- and then we attacked. And yes, more corpses. Ah...when will people learn not to mess with us? It is _seriously_ detrimental to the continuation of their health. Honestly. And all it does is leave more corpses come back as undead skeletons. A vicious circle, that.

Once the battle was done, Hawke turned to the _saarebas_ and tried to make him stand down, and then asked him if he had attacked because his lead had been threatened.

 _Grrrrrowllll_.

“I wish you could nod, or stomp your foot twice for yes, or something,” she said.

 _Gggggggrrrrrroooooowwwwwlllll_.

For all we knew, he could have been asking for a chamber pot.

Both Fenris and Anders commented that Sister Petrice had assumed a great deal from a few grunts and twitches and, struggling to overcome my shock at the fact that those two had actually agreed on something, I leaned in and whispered to Hawke that this whole thing had a distinctly fishy aroma.

She shrugged. We were into it, now, and the Qunari seemed to have taken a liking to her, seeing that it followed her around like a pup and obeyed her every word. I wonder...did she give off a strange perfume or something that made all males go gaga around her? We should bottle it- screw the Deep Roads and all its loot- we’d be gazillionaires in seconds.

But once again, I digress. We finally made it out of those tunnels, and emerged in the Vimmark mountains somewhere...and right smack in the middle of a huge regimen of Qunari.

Oh, just...glorious.

The leader of these Qunari took one look at what we were dragging behind us and went all “You will hold _, basra vashedan_. I am Arvaarad, and claim possession of the _saarebas_ at your heel.”

Well, it was not like we _wanted_ the damned mage to be trailing after us like a lost puppy. But then Hawke had to go all righteous and honourable on me, and demanded some answers –she did that from time to time… I called it her conscience sobering up. I dealt with it by slipping her a few extra drinks and throwing a hunky beefcake her way.

Well – _get this_ \- apparently someone had left a trail of dead Qunari right to the spot where we would come out of from those tunnels, and I bet it wasn’t because they wanted us and the Qunari to roast marshmallows together around the fire. I guess it was because that particular someone wanted us dead at the hands of the Qunari so that said someone would be able to use us as martyrs and stir up some trouble with the city’s horn-headed ‘guests’. And that someone was... _ding, ding, ding_ , yes, you got it, Sister Petrice. And on the first try, too! I’m impressed.

Apparently, the only reason that the _saarebas_ was following us as meekly as a lamb was that this was all he knew; and now that he had been left without his handler to hold the leash, the Qun declared him too dangerous to return to the fold. So, he had a choice to make: die, or die. Oh, yes, he could choose to die, as well. So many choices...

And guess what? We had to die, also. Yes, because we had come in contact with an unleashed _saarebas_ and we were compromised- _saarebas_ cooties, no doubt. Apparently, the Qunari believed that even talking to a mage was enough to expose you to demons and possession and all that cheery stuff. _Pfffttt_...we’d all have been abominations by then, I mean, Anders even sneezed on me, once.

Le sigh. I _have_ mentioned that those damned oxmen are tough opponents, haven’t I? Yes, they are. To the point where I would advise you all to scamper like your ass is on fire if you ever come across them. The best armour is staying out of range, after all, and the only purpose of wars and fighting is not to die for your cause, but to make the bastards on the other side die for _theirs_. But that was a close one; according to the Qunari, _we_ were the bastards deemed to die, and we fought like cornered wolves. I guess we had luck on our side.

So what happened to the _saarebas_ after we killed off all his Qunari buddies, you ask? Well, Hawke used that strange looking rod –minds out of the gutter, please- to release him and he actually _spoke_ to us, not growled, and told us we were worthy of honour and then opted to return to the Qun. “So all this, and now you want to die?” Hawke asked, and he replied that he didn't want to die, he wanted to live by the Qun.

Which, of course, meant he had to die.

Oh, my head hurts.

Hawke did try to convince him, offered him other choices: join the Tal Vashoth, join a wandering circus, whatever, but noooo, he had to die, because he might have been exposed to demons, and he was too dangerous to go back to the Qun.

Anders- for once- put it quite right.

“Of all the ridiculous, spineless, mind-controlled, senseless piece of shit arguments I have ever heard!” he shouted, and even Fenris had nothing to say to that.

So, after all our trouble, the _saarebas_ just set himself on fire, and let me tell you, he smelled bad before, but crispy? Ewww.

And then it was time to go back to Sister Petrice for our...ahem...reward. We found her and that templar lackey of hers frantically cleaning up after themselves to erase any trace of their involvement in our tragic deaths- only we weren’t dead, and I would have felt  sorry for her if I weren’t so damned pissed. She was so disappointed. She hid it quickly, of course, and asked us if we had taken the Qunari out of town without incident.

Without incident my hairy dwarven ass!

She did admit that if, _if,_ such a plot to lead the Qunari straight to us _had_ existed, and _if_ we had died at their hands, then yes, someone _might_ have found that useful.  Our deaths would have been a _tragic necessity_. They could have been used to convince the city not to be seeking ‘appeasement’ with the Qun. In other words, that fucked-up-in-the-head sister wanted to start a war with the Qunari.

Sister, are you nuts? Have you ever fought a Qunari?

Hawke warned her she had made an enemy, and a bitter one at that, but she just waved us off like flies. “I will not make the mistakes of asking for help outside the faithful again,” she assured us. “The stakes –eternity- are just too high,” she said.

Well, I’d like to get a stake and shove it right up her self-righteous...ahem. Hmph. Bloody zealot.

Hawke rubbed her forehead and said, “I need a drink.”

Yeah, that made two of us. All of us. We had just gone up against the chantry and nearly got our asses handed to us. It was a lesson we wouldn’t soon forget.

And what is the moral of this here story?

Brothers might be an unholy pain in the ass, but sisters...far worse.


	27. Adventuring 101: Magistrate's Orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For SeredaAeducan, who has been following this story with enthusiasm that makes my heart all aflutter.   
> Thank you!

Ah, you’re gonna love this one... What can cause you a pounding headache easier than religion, politics, magic and demons put together? Why, a combination of them all. How can this be, you will ask me...this is madness!

Well, yes, madness. That’s the whole point. And a healthy dose of racial bigotry; now that IS a doozie.

So, a little background check, just to make sure we’re all on the same page here...There are three major races on this here world: humans, dwarves, and elves. Yes, there are the kossith or Qunari too, but I’m not really sure they _are_ a race, really, or an experiment gone wrong. I keep thinking there was this farmer somewhere, you know, all lonely and shit, and suddenly the cows in his pasture didn’t look half bad and...yeah. My mind is weird. So sue me.

As I was saying, there are three major races:

  1.       The humans. Plenty of them to go around. I once heard of them being described as ‘the most numerous of the intelligent races’. Well. Don’t make me huff. Intelligent my hairy dwarven ass. There’s more intelligence and rational thought in sack full of ferrets than there is in your average Joe, and that’s all I’m going to say.  It is true of course. They are by far the most numerous of the three races; the most in need of an apocalypse as well. I keep waiting for the giant waves or the hail and fire raining from the sky any minute now. Humans are loud, filthy, way too tall for comfort, and vicious. And they have facial hair. At least the elves are more civilized than that.
  2.       The elves. Ah. Yes. Pointy ears, huge eyes, no hair on their faces-thank the powers that be-and slight of build and height. And once immortal, until they came in touch with humans, and they ‘quickened’. Beats me what that means. Apparently they caught mortality cooties from the ‘lesser races’.  Oh, and there is a rumour going around that if you pair a human and an elf, you always get a human; yeah, a human who took three pretty pills every morning since the day he was born. Trust me, I have seen my share of half-elves. They are all seriously gorgeous.
  3.       The dwarves. A dying breed, unfortunately, but what do you expect from a race that lives underground? Have you ever been down there? Only mushrooms are designed to thrive in the dark and moist of a cave. Dwarves are cunning, ruthless, have horrible manners, and most often than not stink to high hell. Hmph. You are what you eat, and they eat nugs. Notice that I say _they_ , and not _we_...I consider myself the archetype for a new breed of dwarves, that are savvy and cultured, and have more brains than earwax, and that don’t need three hours every morning to braid their beard. I’m the prototype, yeah.



 So, now that we have the basics down, a bit of interracial relations: the humans despise the elves. The elves loathe the humans. And dwarves hate everybody, other dwarves included.

Now on with my tale.

One fine day, there we were, and no shit, a man in an expensive noble’s outfit stops up and offers us a job; he was a magistrate, and we had to go to some ruins and apprehend an escaped criminal. Now, one thing is worse than a politician, and that is a judge. And, one thing is fishier than a politician or a chantry sister giving you a quest, and that is a magistrate doing it. Mainly because a magistrate would have about twenty lackeys and ‘assistants’ doing their assistant’s job. The fact that a magistrate just took the time to offer us a quest in person –not to mention walk out of his office and stand around for us to show up- smelled of rat. A huge rat. A rat of immense size and extremely foul breath.

Le sigh. We were once again short of money. Hawke and Isabela had had a drunken binge the other day; they had drank Corff’s cellar dry. I had too much fun to protest the waste of money, though, because by the end of night, I had a very smashed Isabela pawing me, and an equally sloshed Hawke perched on my lap and giggling in my chest hair. And though I was not romantically interested in any of them, I am a male, thank you very much, and all the male parts are in excellent working order. 

Yeah, I was a happy camper. You should have seen Ander and Fenris’ faces the next day, when I told them what kind of show the girls had put on for me. Ahem. Yeah. Happy camper. And add some.

I will not say anything else, because I am a gentleman –don’t scoff, people, I am- and gentlemen never kiss and tell. Or do other things that include...ahem... and tell. Not another word from this here dwarf.

Erm...no Bianca. Nothing happened. Really. I’m just bullshitting around. Honestly. You’re the only one for me.

So, we took up this quest, and arrived at a little deserted spot on Sundermount, where some guards were busy scratching their asses and looking stupid-not that it required that much effort. Just when we were ready to get into the ruins the criminal had holed himself up in, an elf appeared, looking mighty pissed, and accused the guards and the magistrate, and the City in general of harbouring a man that preyed on elven girls.

Get this; that man in the ruins had snatched and killed dozens of elven children, the latest of who was the elf’s daughter. Poor guy. But the guards had their orders, that the man was to be brought out alive- and frankly so did we.

“It’s okay when their pretty shemlen children are not the ones taken and murdered,” the man raved and ranted, “but when it’s an elf missing, no one gives a damn.”

“Look at them,” I tried to placate him, showing him one of the guards that honestly looked like the butt side of ugly. “I don’t think any of them can worry about having pretty children.”

Hawke smirked a bit at that, and then her eyes softened. She might have been the least maternal person around, but damn it, she liked children- other people’s children, that is. And this man we were after was killing little kids- elven kids, with those soulful green eyes she was so fond of. Her eyes fell on Fenris and Merrill, and then she frowned. Fenris commented that no magistrate would ever condemn a human for killing elven children. Merrill said something in the same lines.

That broke my heart a little, that they were both so certain that no elf would ever see justice (unless it was Anders’ blue glowing pal). But I am a realist, and yes, they hit that one right on the head. It didn’t matter how many elven kids that murdered killed-he was more likely to get a medal than a punishment. Sad, I know, but c’est la vie.

I have to remind you all that I just _love_ getting paid, and one look at Hawke’s face spelled –loud and clear- that we weren’t doing what the magistrate wanted. Nug shit. Another screw-my-orders moment. I kissed our pay away at that look in her eyes. Hawke’s conscience didn’t raise its conscientious little head that often, but when it did, there was no stopping her.

“The man is going to die,” she promised the elf. “I swear it.”

The elf looked taken aback. He had honestly not expected a human to take the side of an elf, much less go against a magistrate’s orders to help one. Mistrust between races went bone deep, I guess. Sad. To think that justice did nothing to catch a man that killed kids, just because those kids were elven...Justice was appalled. Really. He glowed blue for a while, and for once, Fenris was glowing right along with him. The guard –the butt-ugly one- warned us that the magistrate would have our heads if we dared disobey his orders, and guess what? Aveline said something which was along the lines of who gives a fuck.

Huh? Aveline disobeying a direct order? I was afraid I hadn’t completely sobered up from last night’s drinking binge.

I hate tunnels, have I mentioned that before? Especially dwarven made ones, with those little streams of lava bubbling along, and the stupendously bad artwork. What’s with dwarves and those fuck-ugly statues anyway? You’d think a dwarf would be able to work stone so that the end result would look passably attractive, wouldn’t you? Bah, sculptors the dwarves are definitely not.

But here I go once more, digressing like it’s a championship and I’m running for the title.

So, we entered the ruins. First stop, the spiders. Second stop, the skeletons. Enter room, kill shit, what else is new. Oh, oh, yes, now I remember- there was an Arcane Horror in one of the rooms! Nasty pieces of work those, a cross between your usual skeleton and a mage with a serious attitude problem. Apparently, an Arcane Horror is a demon that has possessed the corpse of a mage, and eww, but that visual is so wrong, on so many different levels of wrongness. And it  also drives a nail home on the coffin of that templar argument that killing a mage is the only way to prevent abominations.

Think about it for a moment...a mage is about to become an abomination. You kill him. He becomes an Arcane Horror. Oh, what joy. So demons can possess even the corpses of mages, and no shit, I’m surprised there aren’t demons out there that possess the waste that mages leave behind- like a turd demon or something.

And here I go making myself cringe once more. We must do something about those disturbing images that jump into my head. Really, people. Some of you must give me a signal or something, when I’m heading in that direction, so I will know to put a sock in it.

So, we go past the Arcane Horror –and let me tell you, that fight wasn’t exactly a walk in the park- and we enter more tunnels, with more skeletons, and blah, blah, blah. At the end of that same tunnel, there was a little girl crouched in fear in a corner, pretty as a button, and apparently...not dead. Her name was Leah, or something, and she was that elven merchant’s daughter.

The man that had captured her had hurt her, she said and then suddenly started crying and let her go. She even defended the man, saying that it wasn’t his fault, that the demons had told him to kill and Maker-knows do what else to little elven kids. And at that, Fenris cast Anders an unfriendly look –and that is an understatement, trust me- and started on his usual tirade against mages, until Hawke told him to cork it, because he was giving her a headache. Only that, for once, she did it diplomatically, batting those huge eyelashes at him, and asking him to please keep talking, because she _loved_ his voice, just for anything else _other_ than mages.

Result: blessed silence and a flushed elf.

 When we finally reached the room the man was holed in, fully expecting to find an abomination or something, what we found was a man that: one, was the magistrate’s son, and two, had quite a few tiles loose , not to mention some missing screws. He said it was the demons in his head that told him to kill these children, because they ‘had no right to be so beautiful’.

“A demon made me do it,” Hawke drawled sarcastically. “I must remember that for later. It might come in handy.”

“Or it wasn’t me, it was the one-armed man,” Isabela added. “That’s a good one too.”

Anders was livid. “As if mages don’t have a hard enough time as it is, all we need is lunatics blaming everything on demons too. Just fucking glorious.”

Now, the fact that the guy was the magistrate’s son meant that if we killed the guy, as Hawke had promised, we’d be in deep shit, and sinking fast. You do NOT want a magistrate as an enemy in a city like Kirkwall. And, yes, once again, guess how many fucks Hawke gave about that...Yep. None.

Plus, the man wanted to die. He begged us not to take him back to his father, because in no time at all, he’d free to go on his merry little killing spree again. Fenris offered to put him out of his misery, and Hawke gestured magnanimously.

“By all means,” she said. “Knock yourself out.”

Blue flash, and then an anatomy lesson, and he-who-had-lost-his-marbles joining the choir invisible. Of course, the magistrate never paid us, which was rude of him, really, but that elven merchant did, so yay, the trek to that hillside wasn’t a complete waste, and I didn’t trudge through dwarven tunnels for nothing.

And what is the moral of this story?

 If you’re looking for justice, you’d better be a part of the majority. Otherwise, you’re screwed. Unless of course, you meet someone like Hawke, who might- on a whim- be on the side of what is right, for once.

Oh, yes, and don’t be a racist; it is incredibly unattractive.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	28. Adventuring 101: Act of Mercy

So, my faithful readers, despite Hawke being a little _too_ loose with our cash we were soon very close to the coveted sum of fifty gold ones; we were missing a few silvers, true, but I had no worries. In a city full of incompetent buffoons, that never bothered to look behind the sofa cushions before sending us off to find their knick-knacks, we were sure to have the coin we needed soon. Some sorry sod would soon show up, to send us on a merry hunt for some pommel or such, or ask us to stick our necks out for them- it was what we did best. The sticking our necks thing, not the pommel-finding. That was a side dish.

One problem- Hawke was impatient. For what, I have no idea. I mean, it wasn’t as if the Deep Roads were going anywhere (deeper, for instance). And Bartrand wasn’t going anywhere- although, in retrospect, I wish he had. As far away as possible, if you get my drift. To a place beyond the maps, and should there be dragons there, all the better. I’d freely provide the ketchup, because you know, Bartrand without condiments would be tough to swallow. And would definitely taste all kinds of yucky.

But, once more, I digress. As I was saying, Hawke was impatient. She needed that money, and she needed it now. Bethany was getting more jittery than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs- she was afraid that now that they didn’t have the smugglers’ support, one templar would take his head out of his ass long enough to notice her and it would be bye-bye Bethany. She wanted to be free, the poor girl, although sometimes she expressed the opinion that perhaps living in the Circle wasn’t _that_ bad. Ah, poor Sunshine. She feared loss of control more than the templars did..it certainly made Anders shit a brick, the way she sometimes said that she wished she would just get caught and get it over with.

Anyhow, the money they would get from the expedition-hopefully- would be enough to protect her. Yes, because templars were those innocent, idealistic knights and never received bribes. Yes, keep believing that. Then go frolic and tra-la-la and shit, with unicorns and butterflies. I’ll stay here, chuckling, and drinking in your name and that of all other clueless halfwits.

Excuse me for the sarcasm, but come on! Templars need supplies. They need fancy skirts and a new chamber pot for a helmet every month or so. Plus, there is a little thing called lyrium dust and trust me it doesn’t grow on trees. Sure, sure, the Chantry provides them with it, but...heh, heh, there’s the rub...it provides them with what is strictly _necessary_. Go find me any addict out there, and ask him when they think that the dosage they get is enough. The answer is going to be never. Categorically NEVER.

So, yes, the templars did a little dealing on their own, in the black market. I should know. It’s one of the pies on have my fingers stuck in, but hey, mum’s the word, you didn’t hear it from me. The Merchant Guild has the label of ‘invaluable’ on this her fine dwarf, and for one reason and one reason only: I can keep books. Books. Plural. One legal, one... marginally criminal. And I’m smart enough not to get the two confused like my predecessor, Maker bless his soul, one Serah Orwson, who is now fossilizing at the bottom of some lava pit.

We’ll talk about the Merchant’s Guild and how little removed it is from the Carta another time.

So...Hawke was impatient to get the money together, and in comes a message one day, from none other than Sir Cunt-Tickler himself. Apparently, Ser Thrask had a soft spot for mages- no surprise there, considering his daughter had been one, until she went skipping down Abomination Lane. The message said that Hawke had proven to be one that cared for the blight of mages- bull, she just cared about the money- and maybe she would could be willing to do them a good turn once again.

Le sigh. She took Fenris with her. I mean, the message was clear, how much clearer could it possibly get? The only thing not written on it was ‘come bail out some mages’. But still she took Fenris with her.

We travelled to Sundermount that morning, Anders and Fenris already bickering at the back- and there I was too, out in the cruel, unforgiving outdoors, listening to was promising to turn into the hissy fit of all times, shaking my head, muttering “ _Really_ , Hawke? Both of them?”

She just shrugged, smiled wolfishly, then gave them both a thorough once-over. “What can I say,” she snickered. “A girl has to have her eye-candy.”

Yeah, guess with which part of her anatomy Hawke was leading again...

We arrived at this cave where Ser Cunt-Tickler- sorry, Ser Thrask- was waiting, and he explained the situation to us...apparently, some mages had escaped from the Starkhaven Circle – I wonder, couldn’t people there use a lock, they lost all kinds of stuff, princes included- and now they had made their way here...and there shit starts to thicken, what to do with them...

Ah. Dilemmas. Got to love them.

And, get this...the Starkhaven circle had fallen, as Thrask put it, because of an ‘unfortunate’ fire. Bet you hadn’t thought of that Anders, had you? Burn the Circle to the ground, and escape while the templars used their chamber-pot helmets to carry water?

The mages of course had no intention of going to the Kirkwall Circle. That would be like...exchanging the prison for the dungeons. Horrible ambience in the dungeons, and dreadful interior decorating. Can’t say I blame them.

Ser Thrask of course, being a templar, believed the Circle was the best place for them- you should have the purple colour on Anders’ face- and begged us to find a way to make them come with him _peacefully_. Without hurting a hair on their delicate mage heads.  You should have seen the colour on Fenris’ face at that.

Basically, red faces all around. And muttering. The angry, indignant, you-have-to-be-shitting-me kind.

Ah, nug shit, this was going to be _such_ a long morning.

So, in we go. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, if you ask me. You leave the great outdoors, and get into a cave. Fucking glorious. Bleh. For once- _just once_ \- I’d like to go fight in something else than sewers, back alleys, caves, rickety old mansions, and mountain sides. I don’t know...perhaps a ship? A ship would be a nice change.

Bleh, I tell you.

And what do you know? Apparently, those mages hadn’t gotten the memo telling them we were on their side. I mean, come on people. Stop. Ask. It’s simple. “Are you here to help us, by the way? No? Mind if we try to kill you? Alrighty, then. Attack!”

See? Nothing to it. Civilised manners.

To cut a long story short, and although Anders had sputtered a bit at having to kill mages, we made it further and further into the caverns, until we came upon a young mage boy, who apparently wanted nothing to do with his fellow mages, because –surprise, surprise- they had started summoning creatures and delving into forbidden arts... Yeah, I’d think the skeletons we had to put to eternal rest once again were a _dead_ give away. Pun fully indented. I listened on, as Hawke urged him to go find Thrask at the entrance. Yeah, kid. You can’t miss him. It’s the templar just sitting there, scratching his ass, while we do his dirty work for him.

Grumble, mumble.

By the way...the kid’s hat? Ugh. Horrid. Isabela rolled her eyes- and Isabela had a hat with fruit and butterflies on it. _That bad_.

So, we arrive in the main cavern, and some mage goes mawhahahaha and says we’ll never get him alive –no, he didn't ask first, the dolt- and draws a knife and starts slashing his wrists. Blood magic. Now, there is one thing worse than magic, and that is the icky kind. And here, let me make a little aside and look up and roll my eyes at the Maker. I mean, why blood? Couldn’t it have been..I don’t know...piss magic?

Hehehe, imagine that, for just a second. A mage wants to do magic, and has to whip out his slong, and piss on his own leg. Or squat down, twinkle, then draw shapes in it. I bet you that would have solved the problem of forbidden magic. For good. Icky, I know, but hilarious. No self respecting mage would ever use it, and that, my friends, solves a _whoooole_ lot of problems.

Ah, but here I go about wondering off the subject once again. You know the outcome of that fight, since it’s me standing here telling you that story, and not the mage. Another mage, a woman, started weeping over his slowly cooling corpse, saying “Decimus, you should have listened to me, love...”

The big question there was...Decimus? With a name like that, and that beard on his face, we did the guy a favour. And the world in general. But that’s just me, I didn’t share my opinion with his grieving lover- that would be tasteless, and I’m a beardless dwarf, not a tactless one.

“You killed him,” she told us, disbelief in her eyes. “I can’t believe you killed him.”

“Well, your lover could have tried ‘hello’, you know,” Anders said. “We’re much friendlier than we look.”

 _Exactement_ _,_ as an Orlesian would have said.

Grace, the woman that was left Decimus-less, turns to Hawke and asks what she plans to do with the surviving mages. She asked us to help kill Thrask and let them escape, begged us not to make them  turn themselves to the templars.

Instant chaos.

Anders was all for it. Fenris was all against it. Isabela wanted us to find a way to free the mages without killing Thrask, who – I have to admit- was a decent guy, for a templar and a grower of facial hair. Merrill suggested we all sit down and talk and find a solution and Bethany wanted to set them free, but didn't want to set them free at the same time. So conflicted, that girl.

I wanted to get out of there, forget the whole deal, and have a nice mug of ale and soak my feet for about a week.

But the decision was up to Hawke, in the end, and I was curious to see what my curvy little rogue would decide.

So, Hawke scratched her chin, frowned, got that little crease between her eyebrows, and then went “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go, eeny, meeny, miny, moe.”

And the moe landed on take them back to the Circle. The mages grumbled a little, but it had the moe landed on Fenris, they would have grumbled much more, trust me, because he just lived by the motto ‘a dead mage is a good mage twice over’.

So, back we go to the entrance, and there we find Ser Thrask with the kid, and we tell him that the mages have surrendered, no problem, and he can go pick them up. End of story, right?

Noooo. That would have been too easy. Let me take a minute to roll my eyes at the powers that be at that.

A group of templars showed up, led by a certain Ser Karras, a cold-blooded lizard of a man, that sneered at Thrask and said that he had no intention of taking the mages back alive.

Huh? Excuse me, then, exactly why did we have to go through all that shit to get them to cooperate? I mean, okay, we ended up doing people’s dirty work all the time...I got that. I could even learn to accept it. But for NOTHING????

No. Not accepting that. Ahah. Nope. No way.

Only solution left...kill the templars. Yay. Because we weren’t all bushed by then, and fighting more was very high on our to-do list. Glorious. Just...glorious.

And once again...since it’s me here telling you that story and not Ser Karras, I guess you can deduce the outcome of that little scuffle.  I certainly didn't shed any tears over his corpse, and I urge you all not to either. The man was a scumbag. Plus he had those really atrocious sideburns, that avoided all contact with his cheeks- I honestly have never seen hair so similar to bristles before.

Result: One pleased mage, one tight-lipped fuming elf, a disapproving pirate. Thank the Maker Aveline hadn’t joined us. The one good point in the fucked-up mess of a quest? We had the fifty sovereigns that Bartrand wanted. We could finally get into the Deep Roads expedition.

Hooray...

I made Hawke trot over there immediately, making sure not to let her stop at any stalls, bars, or brothels on the way, handed the money to Bartrand –who was more than astounded- and then took her home.

The Deep Shit expedition would start in two days- she had all the time in the world to settle her affairs, and decide who was going with her. This time, she couldn’t drag all our sorry ashes with her. We had room for plus two- I was going, of course- so it was a matter of whether she would take Bethany with her, or opt to drag her two pieces of eye-candy along, even if they had the tendency to bicker like old fishwives.

I admit it...I begged. “Not both Broody and Blondie, Hawke, I can’t take it. I’m going to trip one of them and oopps! Lava pit. How unfortunate.”

She gave me a cheeky look, and said, “And what will I do for fun down there, Varric?”

Le sigh.

Weeks in he dreary, dark caves of the Deep Roads, with Broody and Blondie carrying on like jilted lovers, and Hawke messing with their heads. Both the upper and the lower ones.

Oh, fucking glorious.

Nug. Shit.

 

 

 

 


End file.
